The Sin of Existing
by S.C.Knifehunt
Summary: A sequel to my previous story "Poisoned Flowers", but it is not necessary to read that before reading this. What happens after Frank is kidnapped? Rated T for mild violence and harsh language. The rating may change as the story progresses.
1. Chapter 1- Nancy- 20 December 2019

**Nancy**

"But how are you doing today?"

The crisp voice of Doctor Gemma Wright cut into my thoughts as I watched the wisps of icy swirls dance across the darkened window, realizing that I had been talking but not conscious of what I had been saying. My brain clogged. Today? Today was horrible. The worst day of my life. Where do I start? Where do I end?

"I am doing fine," I lied, wrenching a smile on my face, sure I was showing one too many molars. Doctor Wright frowned and put down her pen, fixing me with a piercing glare that I had never seen before. Then the momentary blip of anger dissolved into tiredness and she rubbed the bridge of her nose.

"Nancy, some day you are going to have to do the math on all of the 'I'm fines' you have told me."

I was taken aback. I had been seeing Doctor Wright since May, almost seven months now, and in all of that time she'd never once been critical of me. She'd listened and offered coping mechanisms to the problems I had told her but she never been condemnatory of what I had shared with her. I was taken aback, visibly recoiling away from her.

She continued, staring hard into my eyes, "I know the only reason you are here is because of Chief McGinnis and your father. But in the months that you have come to see me you haven't told me anything, just a constant stream of "I'm fines'," I stared in shock as the petite doctor's voice began to rise, "I thought we were making a breakthrough today. You phoned me! I stayed late, hoping that today would be the day you told me the truth, but no," she threw me a disgusted look, "No, just more 'I'm fines'."

I felt my face heating, my anger level always just below boiling point these days threatened to explode, but the phone call came to mind. That one minute phone call. And I deflated into a pile of tears that had been more than half a year in the making.

"Today… wasn't fine," I sobbed, the understatement of the sentence enveloping me as I forced myself to remember things that I tried hard to forget.

Doctor Wright's voice was soothing and calm again but her gaze still held strong, "What happened today?"

I stared hard back at her, tears still streaming down my face, "I got the call." Her face froze. I'd never talked to her about what had happened in April but of course she knew. The country knew. Twenty year old, former child detective, kidnapped from Emerson. People love a good headline.

"They found him?" Her eyes were like side plates and she leaned forward towards me.

I laughed a harsh laugh which broke gutturally over my sobs, "They found him at the beginning of May," quizzical eyes searched me, "I just didn't want to believe it."

"W-what," the eyes grew to the size of dinner plates, "I didn't hear anything about that."

"The police kept it quiet. It was pretty grim." The doctor's eyebrows puckered in an unspoken question but one that, nonetheless, demanded an answer, "They found him in a tub of lye and water in a Boston landfill." Disgust once more crossed the doctor's face but thankfully not directed at me this time.

She fought a losing battle to get control of her face before stuttering, "B-but that was in May. What phone call did you get today?"

I knotted my fingers staring intently at my nails as I made myself step into the flames and remember hell, "The body was damaged so we all fought to have it positively identified. They kept the case open but it was only because we fought. They have been going over every inch of everything. Last month they proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that the tiniest smear of untainted blood on the lid was his. The facial reconstruction is a dead ringer. They worked hard and we fought but in the end it was him," I gulped, my eyes dry. There were no more tears left to cry. "Yesterday, his parents got the call. They phoned me today. It is official now, even though we all knew before."

The silence stretched out beyond the point of awkward, only the sound of my heart pumping in my ears intruding.

"I am sorry, Nancy," whispered Doctor Wright, eventually.

"I'm fine," I mused, studying the snow swirls again, getting lost in my own thoughts as my mouth babbled on, "After all I am the one who killed Frank Hardy."


	2. Chapter 2- Ned- 20 December 2019

**NED**

I wish I could say that this was my first time sitting in a police car but it wasn't, not by a long shot. My time running around helping to solve mysteries had lead to me sitting with nylon zip ties on my wrists in the back of a cop car more times than I will ever admit to anyone: my parents, my friends, the gods themselves, everyone. Even though this time I got to sit in the front seat with my digital recorder and notepad in hand I still felt the twisting knot that was my stomach clench as Chief McGinnis' low growl broke through the silence.

"So Nickerson," he boomed effortlessly, his slight Irish brogue cutting through his nasally downtown Chicago accent, "whadda you think of your first ridealong?"

My stomach unclenched slightly as I turned to face the Chief, his smirk only slightly masked by his thick moustache, "It's been lower key than I am used to," I admitted, nodding towards the empty highway we were parked beside, "I was expecting more traffic to come through the checkpoint."

Chief McGinnis chuckled, reaching for his thermos of coffee. The cannister let off a plume of steam and I shivered, wishing that the anti-idling laws didn't apply to police cars parked on the sides of frigid roads, "Your little series on the dangers of impaired driving have already done wonders for reducing drunk and high drivers this holiday season," he handed me a styrofoam cup of the hottest, blackest coffee I'd ever seen, "that's part of the reason I wanted you to ridealong. I wanted to show you first hand the good you've done."

I flushed a little bit. My bosses had mostly set me to write puff pieces that were only published on the River Heights Herald's sister website RH BUZZ (seriously if I had to do another top ten list about an asinine sitcom I was going to burn my degree). I had begged and pleaded to do something that 'mattered' and after much hemming and hawing my supervisor had let me do a piece on the costs of driving impaired. It had been so well received they'd spun it out into a five part series and even published it in the Herald. I was finally making a name for myself and it was gratifying that Chief McGinnis had liked it... but there was a little niggling doubt clawing at my mind, after all he'd said it was 'part of the reason'.

My eyes narrowed slightly as my smile widened, "Thank you Chief, it is always great to hear people are enjoying my writing."

"You're a hard worker, Edward," he grinned, tipping his cup to his lips, "you'll be a great investigative journalist in no time, if they let you."

Investigative journalist? That was always the assumption. I really just want to be a standard news journalist, reporting on politics and business. But I guess I couldn't blame people, half a decade running around with a detective and I guess they didn't realize I had other dreams. I shook my head slightly, dislodging the cobwebs of my past, lest I get stuck in them.

"Perhaps you can help me on my current investigation then, Chief," I pried, holding my digital recorder up, "Why is the chief of police doing checkpoint duty and a ridealong with some nobody reporter?"

Chief McGinnis looked nervous for half a second before catching my smirk and laughing, "I'll tell you, Nickerson," he mused before staring me soberly in the eye, no trace of a smile, "but it'll have to be off the record."

Damn he was good, I thought as a tucked my recorder away. He had me on the edge of my seat wanting the answer even though I'd only been half joking when I asked the question. Maybe he should take up writing, he sure had a knack for building up suspense. The Chief stared at me grimly, " I do the checkpoints almost every December because-" he paused, drawing in a deep breath before piercing me with an electric stare, "because most of my officers have young families."

I blinked. Of all the reasons he could have given, from budgetary concerns to the little green men told him to, this was not one I had expected. My face apparently betrayed my confusion and dismay because Chief McGinnis continued without prompting, deflating from an imposing and slightly impish force of nature that filled the car to a tired, old man who looked very small. "My wife left me you know," I began to express my sympathies but he waved them aside, "nah it is fine it wasn't recent. Hell I'd be surprised if your parents were out of elementary school by the time it happened but it happened and there isn't a day that I don't remember and regret it," he poured himself another cup of coffee, staring with dead eyes out the window behind me, "I worked too much back then. Never home for the holidays. Always missing birthdays and anniversaries. She couldn't handle it."

"I am sorry to hear that. It must have been a hectic time in River Heights," I responded diplomatically.

The unfocused eyes swiveled towards me, "It wasn't the time away she couldn't take, she was a nurse. Her schedule was as crazy as mine," he shook his head sadly, "no it was the worrying," my stomach clenched, the full reason why Chief McGinnis had invited me for this ridealong unfolding before my eyes. "It was a dangerous time. The street gangs were on the rise in Chicago, spilling out into River Heights. My first year on the force we had the highest murder and violent crime rates ever recorded in town. There was a solid chance every day that I wasn't coming home and that was too much for her," he nodded his head sagely again, looking past me onto the blank stretch of highway.

The story was a sad one, especially told on the side of the road in a freezing car near Christmas, but all I was starting to feel was a curl of anger. Not at the Chief directly but at what he wanted to talk about, however, coy he was being about it.

"You can ask Chief. I don't mind, but you may not like the answer," I replied more coolly than I intended. Chief McGinnis' eyebrows raised in slight surprise before fixing me with a grim stare.

"So how is she?" he asked, the pretenses pushed aside.

The acrid feeling of stomach acid crawling up my throat caused me to burp slightly as I replied, "I don't know. She doesn't want to talk to me."

In all of my time knowing McGinnis he'd never truly looked surprised, a habit formed, I guessed, from having a group of teenagers solving some of the most bizarre mysteries on the books, from 'ghosts' to impossible locked rooms, all the damn time. But whatever the past had held Chief McGinnis looked completely dumbfounded now.

"Wh-hat?" He spluttered, "Since when?"

"I haven't talked to her since the beginning of June."

"But-but she's told me that you've been doing good whenever I ask."

We sat in silence as the weight of the statement settled. After a minute I replied, "And she might believe that. She told me that she was leaving me for my own good. After they found the body," I couldn't bring myself to say my friend's name, "she said that it had hurt her so much losing him that she couldn't risk doing that to someone else. I tried to explain that I would care for her even if we weren't together," bitter tears formed as I remembered the blazing June night and the blazing June fight, "she threw the ring at me and told me I should learn to hate her. She said it was what she deserved. I've tried to talk to her since but she won't… won't listen," I finished lamely.

An uncomfortable silence permeated the car for minutes, hours, or days, one couldn't really tell. The traffic itself was unusually light even, not a single car had passed by, although the sheets of icy sleet that were falling was probably to blame for that rather than a sense of cosmic irony.

Suddenly the radio crackled to life causing both me and the Chief, stuck respectively in our own memories, to jump, spilling the now cold contents of our styrofoam cups down our jackets, "Dispatch to car 926. Do you copy 926?"

Chief McGinnis hesitated only long enough to place his empty cup on the dash before reaching for the radio, "This is car 926, copy Dispatch."

"Copy, 926. State troopers have reported a code 11 coming your way. They are pursuing but the vehicle is not stopping for them. They are requesting help in a rolling blockade"

"Roger, Dispatch. What is their radio code?"

"They are car T36 on frequency 151.29500."

"Roger, Dispatch. Will engage," McGinnis, expertly twisted the dials on the radio before speaking again, "Car T36 this is car 926 following up on a code 11."

"What is your location car 926?" Responded the crackling voice, a siren audible in the background.

"One mile west of the Airport Road turn off on Highway 90."

"Roger, 926. We have a single motorcycle going 100 mph. It has blown through three of our checkpoints. We have three vehicles in pursuit but are requesting help in executing a rolling roadblock."

Chief McGinnis' eyebrows reached for the brim of his hat, "Confirmation requested: did you say a motorcycle, T36?"

"10-2, affirmative," the speaker paused for a few seconds, "we are approaching your position within three minutes. Be ready to act as the south point."

"10-4, will be ready to act as south point. Requesting license plate for a 10-27."

"Roger. New York plate, 3 - 2 - Delta - Bravo - 3 - 4."

"3 - 2 - Delta -Bravo - 3 - 4," confirmed Chief McGinnis, already plugging in the plate number into the dashboard mounted toughbook.

"Roger that 926. ETA 2 minutes."

"10-4," the Chief replied slotting the radio into its holder and pressing the affirmative key on the screen to start running the license plate.

"I don't think I understood a word of that," I mused truthfully as the Chief started the car and positioned it in the leftmost lane of the highway, a determined look on his face.

"You are going to be getting more than you bargained for, that is for sure," the Chief chuckled. "We have a guy who apparently has a deathwish and has chosen this slushy, slippery night to drive 30 mph over the speed limit on a motorbike." I shivered even though since the car was running the heat had come on. Almost all incidents involving motorcycles were fatal and the weather was about as far from optimal as it was possible to be for motorbikes. "The troopers are instigating a rolling roadblock," he said, squinting in his mirror to see if he could spot the lights of the troopers yet, "which means we are going to surround the driver and force them to slow down before they hit the city limits."

"What kind of idiot rides a bike in this weather?" I pondered aloud as I caught the telltale signs of rolling lights in the side mirror.

The Chief was slowly starting to move his car into a better position, constantly glancing at the parade of four vehicles coming towards him. He flicked on the automatic setting on the radio, "Car T36, I see you. Ready to join pursuit."

"Roger, car 926," came the reply.

As the three state troopers and the motorcycle flew by Chief McGinnis floored it, easily accelerating within ten seconds to a position behind the speeding bike. The contents of the car jumbled during the sudden burst of speed, the thermos rolling under my seat, the toughbook swinging out slightly on its articulated arm.

With McGinnis in place the state troopers began to take action. One car accelerated in front of the motorbike while the other two closed in on the side, keeping pace. All four law enforcement cars kept up the speed for a few seconds, ensuring that there was no gap big enough for the bike to worm away from them before the order came in.

"Begin slow down maneuvers," shouted the radio.

I saw three sets of brake lights come on. We were still going fast but I could see the speedometer dipping below 100 mph. The bike's brake lights lit up too now. The speedometer dipped lower and lower over the next few minutes until they were crawling along the highway at 10 mph. My adrenaline high was starting to slow now too as I inspected Chief McGinnis. He was sweating bullets at the effort of keeping the perfect speed and distance from the other vehicles without causing a collision. I glanced at the toughbook as we pulled to a stop in the middle of the highway, the River Heights welcome sign visible in the distance, curious as to the fool on the bike who was slowing raising his hands above his head as four vehicles worth of law enforcement swarmed him.

My blood ran cold as I read the name. It couldn't be. I glanced out the window at the biker as he raised his helmet off his head slowly at the request of one of the troopers. Suddenly a blinding light seared my eyes, the driver was silhouetted against the headlights of a car speeding down the other side of the highway. His curls caught the light, giving him a halo. I gulped and glanced back down at the toughbook screen, willing this all not to be true. But a small, slightly unflattering drivers license picture sat to the left of the words, VEHICLE REGISTERED TO: HARDY, FRANKLIN, and I knew my ghost was real.


	3. Chapter 3- Nancy- 20 December 2019

NANCY

Doctor Wright barely blinked at my admission. The slightest microexpression betrayed her anxiety that she was sitting in a room with a murderer, but she had not become the most trusted police psychologist in River Heights by falling to pieces after hearing that her clients had done terrible things.

"Did you actually kill him or do you just feel responsible for his death," she asked, her voice level and holding no accusation.

I blinked, staring at her hard, "Does it really make a difference? He is dead because of me."

"Nancy," the doctor continued gently, "why is it your fault that Frank Hardy is dead? Did you shoot him? Stab him? Do anything to him?"

"N-no," I mumbled.

"They why is it your fault?"

The question hung in the air for an uncomfortably long time as I trudged through my brain, trying to figure out a way to explain it so she would understand. But that had been my problem. I had tried telling my dad, Hannah, George, Bess, even Joe but they all told me the same thing: it wasn't my fault. But it was.

"W-well," I finally stuttered, "He was kidnapped in my building. What if the murderer was after me? I've pissed off a lot of people over the years. What if they were trying to kill me?"

"And they mistook a what-," the doctor thought carefully for a second, recalling the newspaper articles about Frank, "six foot tall, brunette, male for a-," she glanced at my file laying open on the table beside her, " -five foot six inch, titian haired, female," she raised an eyebrow, piercing me with another stare, "Do you really think that?"

I looked away, "No, I guess not but… but-," I faltered, unsure how to continue.

"Can I tell you what I think?" queried Doctor Wright. I nodded curtly, meeting her eyes again, "I think there is a deeper reason, a logical reason, why you feel responsible. I think you feel you did something wrong and that is why you feel like you "killed" him," the doctor's eyes bored into mine again, "But I am here to tell you that you are human and make mistakes. That doesn't mean you are responsible for his death. I am also here to tell you that you cannot heal so long as you bottle up your feelings. So while you don't have to tell me anything I would seriously recommend telling somebody why you feel guilty."

"Or I could be a megalomaniac," I responded, half joking. The Doctor leveled her hard stare at me again.

I shifted uncomfortably under the harsh look, thinking. What else could I tell her or anyone else? The truth? No, the truth was staying locked away. The man was dead, there was no point smearing his name. The silence stretched on.

*deedle dee dee deedle dee dee deedle dee dee dun*

Whew. Saved by the bell.

"Miss Drew," started Doctor Wright, disapprovingly.

"Sorry Doctor Wright," I annunciated, whipping out my phone, "I'm on call for work. I have to take this." I answered the phone with the false chipperness that society expects, "Hello, this is Nancy speaking!"

"Hello dear," replied Jane Marple, one of River Height's best dispatchers, "Sorry to bother you so late but we've got an unidentified gentleman at the general hospital. They want you to run over there and grab his fingerprints and a swab to see if we can identify him."

I dug around in my purse looking for a pencil and a scrap of paper, "Is he unconscious or injured?"

"It sounds like he might be catatonic. He is conscious but not responsive. Possible injuries due to frostbite." Doctor Wright shoved a piece of paper and a pen in my hand and I nodded my thanks to her before continuing.

"Right," I grunted, jotting down notes, "Is he still in the ER or have they moved him to a room?"

"The Chief says he is still in the ER but he'll meet you at the check in desk regardless," answered Jane, blighly.

My eyes bugged out slightly, "The Chief is there?"

"Oh yes," she replied, "You know how the Chief feels about dangerous drivers. He picked up this one at one of his checkpoints."

"Fair enough," I conceded, "Tell him I'll be there in a few minutes. I am in the area."

"Perfect, thank you dear! If I don't see you before then have a great Christmas!"

"You too, Jane! Night!" I hung up my phone, closing my eyes and let out a deep breath. There were a lot of places where I could be distracted but work wasn't one of them.

"I am guessing our appointment is going to be cut short," interjected Doctor Wright, settling back into her chair.

"Yup," I nodded, standing up and reaching for my coat, "Can I book another appointment?"

"Hhhmmm, I have an opening on January 9th at 6:00PM if that works for you," replied the Doctor turning towards her computer and pulling up her schedule.

"Sounds like a plan!" I smiled. Doctor Wright frowned at me.

"Before you put your full mask back on I am going to ask you to think about what we talked about today. You need to confide in someone."

I zipped up my coat, "I will, Doctor Wright. Don't worry!"

"You've already got your mask fully secured again," responded Doctor Wright, her frown creasing her face further.

"Well you know what Descartes said," I mused, "'Masked, I advance.'"

"But remember you can't remove your masks without removing some of your skin with them," replied the doctor.

"Berthiaume," I answered, revealing the source of her quotation but not acknowledging it beyond that.

"Correct," she nodded, a melancholy look crossing her face. "Please be kind to yourself over the holidays Nancy."

I nodded, waving, and headed towards the door.

* * *

Being an identification technician is not the most glamourous job in the world but it pays the bills and fills out some of the more lacking elements in my investigative resume. I've learned how to take and run fingerprints and DNA swabs and because River Heights is a smaller town I get to help with some of the lab work for the crime scene investigation department. My goal is to be a private investigator so being able to work on more of the lab based stuff that I don't have a lot of experience in is helpful. On the other hand the job has its downsides, including having to be on call and with only three people in the department I end up being on call a lot.

As I pulled into the general hospital's parking lot the snow started coming down at white out levels. I pulled my hood up and, stopping only to grab my kit from the trunk, ran for the emergency room entrance.

The ER was almost suspiciously quiet, likely due to the bad weather since I had barely seen anybody on the road even though it was just before 8:00PM on a Friday. As I approached the check in desk I heard an expletive from the waiting area.

"Shit."

Turning I saw Chief McGinnis, standing up from an uncomfortable plastic chair, "Hi Chief," I beamed with a false smile, "I'm here to help ID your reckless driver!"

Grim faced Chief McGinnis swore again, under his breath, "Shit, Nancy. I thought Fred was on call."

My face fell. I was just as good as either of my coworkers, I didn't think the Chief played into the macho, boys club image of the police force but I guess I was wrong. "We- we switched shifts. Freddie's old high school gang came to town today so he switched me for my Christmas Eve shift."

The Chief pinched the bridge of his nose, "What about Leroy?"

"He's gone to that big criminology symposium in Idaville that his dad was hosting. He's due back either late tonight or early tomorrow," I replied monotonously, cut to the quick by the Chief's attitude. Normally he was very supportive of me. Had I messed up something?

"Shit," breathed Chief McGinnis again, "Listen Nancy, I don't want you to get the wrong idea here. It's not that I don't want you to do your job I am just worried."

"Worried?"

"You see-," the Chief paused, looking unsure of how to progress. "Well, this guy was driving stolen property."

"And?" I prompted, having taken DNA swabs of murderers and worse I was confused as to why I would need to be protected from a catatonic car thief.

"And… the bike was Franklin Hardys," the Chief rushed out quickly.

The world seemed to contract around my head. I could feel the blood in my ears and the floor seemed to move unnaturally. I jerked toward the waiting room chair and hung my head between my legs, praying that the sickly sensation would leave soon. Chief McGinnis sat beside me.

"I'm sorry Nancy," the Chief said, patting me on the shoulder, "I'll check with the troopers to see if the identification can wait until Leroy comes back."

I shook my head trying to force the blood away from my ears. I couldn't allow that. I needed to know who this person was. It couldn't be the murderer, Frank hadn't had his bike with him that day, that was why he'd been in my car…

"It is alright Chief," my mouth said as my body stood up, "I can do it. What room is he in?"

"R-r-room 182," stuttered the Chief, standing beside me, "But Nancy are you sure?"

"I'm on call and I am a professional. Frank is dead there is nothing I can do about that but I can do my job," my mouth surprised even me with its determination.

I strode towards the room, Chief McGinnis following behind me. I'd been in the ER enough times to know my way to room 182, a result of my ill spent youth, however, when I reached the door and saw Officer Bobbsey guarding a bed my stomach clenched. My hand hovered, reaching out to pull aside the room divider but refused to pull aside the curtain. Could I do this? Would I be able to keep my mind clear? What if it was Frank on the other side? What if it wasn't?

The officer that was guarding the bed pulled aside the divider and my hand clenched on the handle of my kit.

"Nancy?!"

Chief McGinnis, Officer Bobbsey, and the attending nurse all gasped as the catatonic patient spoke.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, a small wave of relief spreading over me as I recognized the man handcuffed to the bed, "Joe, what the hell are you doing in River Heights?"


	4. Chapter 4- Joe- 20 December 2019

JOE

"Joe, what the hell are you doing in River Heights?" I could hear the relief in her voice but her eyes still looked close to tears. I hadn't seen Nancy since May and she did not look good. She'd always been slim but she now looked skeletal. Bruise-like shadows ringed her eyes and her skin looked slightly pinched and yellow. But as her smile increased it was easier to see the Nancy I'd known for years. Then her words hit home for me.

"R-r-river Heights?" I blurted, any sense of composure I might have had gone.

A burly man with a bushy mustache sidled up beside Nancy, piercing me with a hard stare. It would have been easy to know that he was a police officer even if he hadn't been wearing the uniform, as he transformed from passive listener into an interrogator.

"That is right," he growled in a low but forceful voice, "And we've got a few questions regarding that."

I stared passively into his eyes, having been in this position a few (dozen) times before, "Yes, officer?"

"Chief McGinnis, actually," the burly man corrected. I felt my eyebrows raise, so this was the Chief McGinnis that Nancy used to talk about, but what was he doing here? "And what is your name, son?"

"Joseph Hardy, sir."

Now it was his turn for his eyebrows to raise in recognition. I scowled internally, of course he knew who I was, everybody seemed to know about me because of what happened to…

The Chief's manner shifted slightly. It wasn't as aggressive anymore, just businesslike, "At 18:50 on Highway 90 just outside of River Heights state troopers reported a motorcycle going 100mph. The driver, you," he informed me with a look, "refused to pull over. We instigated a rolling roadblock. The bike was impounded and you were taken here due to being unresponsive and having severe frostbite on your hands and possible hypothermia."

I looked down at my hands, they were loosely bandaged and I could feel cotton balls between each of my fingers. The tube of an IV poked from beneath the bandages, likely feeding me saline and painkillers, if the Chief's word about the frostbite was to be believed. I also noticed my wrist was handcuffed to the bed frame.

"Joe, what were you doing?" Pled Nancy's voice into my thoughts. I looked up into her pale blue eyes, creased with worry, and my stomach knotted.

"I wish I could tell you but I don't really remember," I answered truthfully, "I remember getting off shift, going home, Dad was crying, Mom told me about F-fra…" My voice petered off as I remembered that brief discussion. "I-I tried to call Bess but she was down in the tunnels so it went straight to voicemail… after that I don't really remember anything."

Silence stretched eternal as I examined my bandages. I wiggled my toes and felt more bandages. How long had I been on that bike?!

"What day is it?" I mused to the room at large.

"The twentieth," replied Nancy, pity written all over her face.

"Wha-," I felt my eyes bulge and could hear my EKG spike.

"It's a fourteen hour drive from Bayport to here, Joe. And that is during ideal conditions."

I pinched my eyes closed. This couldn't be right. I was missing a day! Why had I left Bayport? Well there was really only one reason why I would have… but had I told Mom and Dad? Phil? Tony? Chet? Anyone? Why couldn't I remember! My head slunk down towards my hands but has I flexed my fingers to catch it intense pain broke through the haze of painkillers. I winced and straightened.

"Son," a gruff voice pried into my thoughts with difficulty, "Can you answer me one thing? Are you the brother of Frank Hardy from Bayport, New York?"

"Why ask what you already know," I mumbled, feeling my eyes stinging.

"Well," the Chief started slowly, "We might be able to knock down a few of the evading police charges due to-" he paused, searching for the words, "-your situation."

I felt my face flush, with anger or embarrassment I couldn't tell. It felt weird to be the grieving family member for once. Uncomfortable, unnatural.

"Thank you, sir," my voice replied but I didn't recall saying it.

"Don't go thanking me yet. I still have to talk to the troopers, but I'll see what I can do," he smiled warmly, briefly resting his hand on my shoulder in a fatherly fashion. I could see why Nancy had thrived as a detective with his support. The Chief made his way towards the door, jostling his hat and gloves as he reached for the handle. But as he touched the knob he turned around and pierced me with a warm but serious stare, "Oh and just so I don't regret this, stay put in this room until I get back."

I smiled waving my cuffed arm, "How'd I go anywhere, Chief?"

"If half the stories about you are true you could get out of those cuffs in a dozen different ways in the time it would take me to tie my laces," the Chief smiled ruefully at Nancy, "Don't forget, I had my own teen detective. I know what kind of tricks you've got up your sleeves."

Chuckling Chief McGinnis left. The awkward silence filled the room as the nurse returned to his post. The obviously green cop rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, apparently unsure what to do now that I was no longer catatonic.

"Protocol dictates that you guard the room from the outside once the suspect is conscious and poses no threat to themselves or others, Officer Bobbsey," Nancy smiled at the rookie. Relief flooded his face and he followed the parade out the door.

As the rookie left the room Nancy's smile dropped leaving her face tired and concerned. Her eyes raked over my bandaged hands before piercing me with a stare that had compelled greater men than me into telling the truth, "Do you remember anything from the ride? Anything at all?"

"I remember thinking," I paused, flushing pink with embarrassment, "I remember thinking that Hell was supposed to be warmer."

Nancy's hands twitched as if to grab mine in sympathy but halted, thankfully, before clutching my gauze wrapped hands.

I felt my eyesight becoming blurry, Nancy becoming a smear of red and white, "And then he spoke to me," I felt the tears run down my face freely as I remembered the voice that had been haunting me for the better part of a year. "He told me that in the inferno section of the Divine Comedy Dante says the ninth circle of Hell was a frozen lake," my voice faltered yet again, memories of his geeky rants flooding back, nearly drowning me. Even dead my brother was still lecturing me about stupid crap no one really cares about. Fuck, I was going to miss it.

Nancy looked troubled. She bit her lip slightly and her face blanched a paler shade of white, increasing her sickly appearance under the harsh fluorescent lighting.

"I'm sorry Joe," came her voice in a whisper.

And that crushed me.

Nancy-fucking-Drew was the strongest person I knew. She did what Frank and I had done by herself a good chunk of the time. No "safety net". But here she was, defeated and apologizing to me, of all people. I was supposed to protect him. I laid my bandaged hand on her freckled ones.

"Nancy, it isn't your fault. None of this," I paused, "I should have been with him. I should have had his back." The tears bit away at my eyes.

Nancy placed her other hand lightly on top of mine. Even through my tears I could recognize the look of someone who wanted to do something but couldn't. I'd seen it in crooks eyes when they wanted to come clean and little kids eyes when they couldn't jump off the high board and everyone in between.

"Nance," I prodded gently and she jumped half out of her skin. "Is everything okay?"

The hysterical laugh that came from her lips was worse than anything I was expecting. It was shrill, breathless, and continuous.

"Nancy?" I barked, tears ceasing as I focused on my crazed friend, but the laughter continued.

The rookie rushed into his room, his hand on his, still holstered, 9mm Luger. "Sir, please release the woman," he barked in a voice that would have been a lot more threatening if he wasn't shaking. I raised my free hand, attempting to shake Nancy's fingers off my other hand. Her sobbing laughter continued.

The yelling and my squirming hand apparently did the trick because, as quick as she had disappeared, the cool and collected Nancy I had known for almost two decades came back down to earth, pinker than usual and breathing hard but sane.

"Oh shit, sorry Officer," she gushed as her pallor darkened to a dusky red, "He didn't do anything. It was my fault… all my fault…" She petered out as the constable uneasily left the room again.

And then there was silence again, as we sat hand in hand, seeing things, people, and places that were not there.

My eyes were just beginning to droop when I sensed rather than heard the door to the room open.

"He asleep?" muttered a rough female voice.

My eyes flew open and I took in the newcomers. Clad in a bulky brown jacket and clutching a ushanka, the woman who had spoken was clearly one of the state troopers I had led on a merry chase. My stomach clenched, this was the lady who could decide to send me to the crowbar hotel for a year and she was not looking too pleased to be meeting me. The second person was not as threatening. Likely a doctor, although not an ER doctor judging by his neat tweed coat with the only concession to his profession being a shiny name tag proclaiming him to be Dr. Li Jie Zhao.

"Ah, the infamous Joseph Hardy," the trooper drawled, her distinct Chicagoan accent lengthening the 'A' in my last name making it 'Hawdy'. "Chief McGinnis has been pleadin' your case but I, and Dr. Zhao, still got a coupla questions we'd like to ask 'fore we can decide anythin'."

Behind her Chief McGinnis, nodded his head towards the door, eyes focused on Nancy, a clear sign that protocol needed to be followed and she couldn't be here for my questioning. As she stood up to go a thought rushed across my brain and I clung to her hand.

"Nance, I need you to do me a favour."

The law enforcement officers eyebrows both raised and the trooper threw the Chief a look that demanded an explanation while the doctor made a note in his tablet, but Nancy turned back to me, confusion clouding her eyes.

"Can you call my folks? Yuh know, just to let them know I landed on my feet?"

The clouds of confusion cleared and Nancy nodded, thankfully not asking why I couldn't just phone them myself.

Her boots squeaked lightly on the clean linoleum as she made her way to the door, closing it quietly behind her.

"Right," droned the trooper, dragging a chair over to my bedside, "let's figure out what happened tonight."


	5. Chapter 5- Nancy- 20 December 2019

NANCY

As the coolness of the hospital room door left my fingers I felt the colder grip of memory drag me back, holding me, suffocating me. It wasn't the same clammy fingers of recollection that had been plaguing me for the past eight months, it was an older memory, tainted by death.

We'd been fourteen. Acne ridden. The fuzzy video coming from a crappy webcam had thrown his braces into sharp definition.

"Ugh, I don't know why I took AP English," lisped the memory of the elder Hardy.

I had giggled, even then harbouring a serious crush, "Why what are you covering?"

"The Divine Comedy starting with Inferno," he'd moaned, rubbing his hand over his eyes and up through his hair, leaving it standing slightly on end.

"Ooo, tough," I sympathized, "I got lucky we're doing Othello."

"Trade you," he'd teased, "You get a pretentious dude claiming to have walked through hell, purgatory, and heaven and I'll take the story of love, revenge, and betrayal."

I remember sticking my tongue out at that point, "No way. You clearly haven't read Othello if the first thing you think it is about is love."

A mass of blond hair had invaded the screen at that point. The human dynamo: Joe, "He's always thinking about love when he talks to you," Joe had crowed, headlocking his brother and giving him a noogie. The overexposed screen had already been too highly saturated with red so the brunette boy's blush made him look like Violet Beauregarde's strawberry shortcake loving brother.

"Shut up," he had yelled, attacking the blond mass, "I'll condemn you to the ninth circle, you backstabber. You'll be bunk mates with the devil." The flailing limbs knocked the laptop over at that point and the connection was severed. Gone. Like he would always be from here on. Leaving me alone with the devil in the ninth circle of hell, a traitor.

That realization swatted away the hands of memory releasing me back into the real world with a hard bump. Officer Bobbsey stared at me. Worry creasing his brow. God, he must think I am a complete and utter nutter.

"Sorry," I muttered, digging out my cellphone from my pocket, "it's been a long day."

The rookie smiled understandingly, shifting his weight to a more comfortable position. Returning the smile I headed towards the front doors, scrolling through my contacts looking for the number to the Hardy's home phone.

The wind whipped me in the face, throwing snow and ice crystals at me as I hovered in the half closed in smoking/ cell phone safe section. My fingers fumbled on the touch screen, not registering the touch due to the intense cold. Finally the call started dialing.

It was past 11:00PM in Bayport so I was expecting the answering machine or a sleepy 'Hullo' on the final ring, what I was not expecting was an incomprehensible answer halfway through the first ring.

"Hullowhahappenanything!" The frantic voice breathed in one long word.

"Huh? Sorry I didn't catch that. Is Laura or Fenton there?"

"Whose this?" Demanded the voice.

"Whose this?" I countered, confused.

"It's Phil. Are you reporting in? Did you find something?"

My confusion deepened, "Find something?"

Weakly the voice responded, "You're not part of the hunt are you?"

"No, sorry," my voice meek. This was too weird, even for the weirdness that was this day so far.

There was a beat followed by a deep sigh, "Then I am really going to have to get you to call back at a better time. We need to keep the lines open."

"Why?"

Another beat and another sigh, "Who did you say you were again?"

"I'm Nancy. Nancy Drew." I waited for him to continue but dead air was the only response. "Hello, are you still there Phil?"

"I- I'm here," came the stuttered reply, "Sorry, I've just heard so much about you. You're not in Bayport are you? We could really use your skills."

Despite the cold I felt my cheeks flush slightly out of embarrassment before the seriousness of his statement hit home, "I'm not but what the hell is happening there?"

Sadness filled the phone lines as Phil slowly continued, "Well you heard about Frank..."

"Yeah," came my response slowly, just wishing for this day to end or to have never been.

"Well Joe took it hard and has been missing for more than 24 hours. It is looking like he.. he...he threw himself in the ocean," the last words were rushed out on a wave of pent up sorrow.

The shock of his statement slapped me in the face, stunning me into silence.

"Mr. Hardy is down at the docks with the police, they are dragging the area. Mrs. Hardy is trying to sleep."

"But-but he's here," I finally managed to squeeze out.

Even the wind seemed to mute as the line went quiet again.

"Who-who is?"

"Joe. He turned up here."

More silence.

"You're not fucking with me are you?" Pled Phil, a man torn between not believing and wanting desperately to believe.

"No," I promised, "He showed up in River Heights driving Fran… a motorbike. The cops picked him up a few hours ago."

"MRS. HARDY!"

I leapt and held the phone away from my ear as the man on the other end yelled at full volume. Seconds past before the telltale noises of a person scrambling down stairs met my ears.

"Hello," came the breathless voice on the other end of the line. My stomach tightened remembering the news she had passed on to me not 24 hours ago.

"Hi Laura, this is Nancy."

"Nancy?" The confusion in Laura Hardy's voice was palpable.

"I don't really know how to say this," I started truthfully, unsure how to explain the bizarre events of the last few hours, "but Joe showed up in River Heights."

The wind stopped again.

"River Heights?!" Exclaimed the exhausted woman. "You're serious aren't you? Is he okay?"

Is he okay? Such a loaded question. Do I tell her the truth or try to soothe her aching soul?

Decency won out, "He is okay," I white lied. "He has some nasty frostbite and doesn't remember much but he is doing okay."

"Why didn't he phone me then?" Asked the astute matriarch.

It was my turn to sigh deeply. The truth it was, "He is talking with the police and the troopers now."

Before she even spoke I could feel panic coursing through the phone, "Oh my god! What did he do? Is it serious? Oh god, I can't… I can't… I can't lose him too."

"He was driving well over the speed limit and failed to stop for the police. That is it," I tried to keep my voice even and soothing. "Chief McGinnis is trying to get the charges knocked down."

"That's James McGinnis?"

"Yes," I comforted, "He is fair and understanding. He will do everything in his power to make sure nothing bad happens."

"Oh thank god," breathed Mrs. Hardy, "I think Fenton has his number. I might get him to call and explain...," she stopped short, breathing heavily, "Thank you for bringing my little boy back."

Tears overwhelmed my eyes as my brain autopiloted through the end of the conversation. When we hung up, I glanced at my watch, it had only been five minutes since I started the call. The world was threatening to insist that while the minutes were long the days were short.

As this asinine thought struck me with cold dread I had been holding off while I forced being cheerful collapsed back down on me, intensified by the cold weather. Shivering I shuffled towards the automatic doors of Emergency. The heat hit me like an aggressive bear hug, enveloping me completely and I closed my eyes to embrace it back.

"Nancy?!"

No. No. No. No. No. Anyone but that. It can't be? Why him? Why here? Why now? First Frank. Then Joe. Not him.

"Nan?"

I opened my eyes, facing the last ghost of my past: Ned. He looked… well he looked like shit. He had a black eye starting to bloom and a large sterile bandage was taking up the left side of his face. His spatial perception seemed to be giving him trouble too as he tried and failed three times to put his cell back into his coat pocket.

"Ned," I exclaimed, taking in his visage, "What happened? Did you get jumped?"

"Not exactly," he began, shifting his gaze away from me.

"What exactly did happen," I started, squinting my eyes and crossing my arms.

Ned went to run his hand through his hair but hit the bandages and winced, "I know you don't believe in this kind of stuff but I saw a ghost."

Insane and gullible were two words I would not use to describe Ned but right here and now both of them were floating around my mind as I pondered skeptically, "A ghost did this to you."

"Wha-" started Ned looking confused for a second before the penny dropped, "oh this," he waved at his face, "no, I blacked out and hit my head. Apparently I gave myself a concussion."

"A concussion?! That is pretty serious. Is that when you saw the "ghost"?"

"No, I was riding with the Chief. We did this awesome high speed chase and when we caught the guy it was Frank Hardy's ghost," he continued glibly, the concussion obviously at the stage of making him giddy.

A bucket of ice water flooded my insides. Apparently the whole world had Frank Hardy's death on its mind.

"You're not looking good," I stated, gingerly touching his fringe to inspect the bandages and feeling the clammy cold of his forehead. One of his eyes was badly dilated. "Do you want me to call Burt to pick you up?"

"Nah, he's in Wisconsin for Christmas. I just texted Bess and she's gonna let me stay at her place tonight and make sure I don't fall asleep for the next six hours."

Shit. Bess. I'd forgotten about her.

"I don't think that is going to happen," I said gently, as I lead him back to his chair in the waiting room.

"Wha- why not?"

"Because that "ghost" you saw was Bess' very much alive and injured boyfriend and I don't think she's going to be leaving his side for a while."

Even his rapidly swelling eye widened, "That was Joe?!" There was a seconds pause as I nodded before Ned closed his eyes breathing heavily, "Thank god, at least that means I'm not crazy."

And with that ominous statement we sat in silence. Another round of silence. It was like I had forgotten how to talk to people. Silence continually surrounded and engulfed me now and threatened to do so forever, allowing my brain to fill the silence with its horrible thoughts.


	6. Chapter 6- Bess- 20 December 2019

BESS

You know what's not fun? The last shift before the holidays.

Stealthily I snuck my phone out of my coveralls and checked the time. Fifteen more minutes and then I would be home free. My phone buzzed in my hand and a text came through: Have concussion. Can I stay your place t-night?

"Yo Bess, put it away, Scotty's on a rampage. We ain't supposed to be out of the tunnels yet. Let's go under and quick," Brian whispered as we dashed down the ladder leading to the steam tunnels.

Brian was my work partner, a tenured mechanical engineering technologist but also exceptionally laid back. As we begun our final (slow) round of sector 1.A the topic fell to my phone message, "Was that your boyfriend, finally?"

A light flush moved up my neck, Brian was easy to talk to and I'd been ranting at him for the last eight hours about how Joe wasn't responding to my messages, "I don't think so. The person must be local."

"Hey maybe he's doin' one of those, yah know, grand gesture things. Showin' up to sweep you off your feet for Christmas. Maybe he's here just waitn' for you to get off work."

"Oh I highly doubt it," I laughed. Brian was ever the romantic, "The person is asking me to 'babysit' them," Brian raised his eyebrows, "oh get your mind out of the gutter," I laughed pushing him, "They've got a concussion."

"Any idea who?"

"It is sad to say it could pretty much be any of my friends, concussions being a not too uncommon state for most of them," I dug my phone out of my pocket, checking to see that Scott wasn't around, finally able to see the sender of the message, " However, it looks like it is Ned," I sighed.

Brian's forehead puckered slightly, "Ned's the one that was engaged to your best friend, right?"

"Yup," I breathed, impressed he remembered such a small detail, "What about you? Any plans for tonight?"

"Sarah is desperate for this Lego set for Christmas so I'll be stopping in at the Walmart before sacking off for the rest of the weekend."

"Sounds like we've got another engineer in the making," I teased, remembering his daughter Sarah's excitement for all things building related.

"Eh the traitor is interested in electrical engineering," he grimaced jokingly, "I'll not put up with a sparky in the family," he hung his head with exuberance and covered his eyes, "The shame of it."

Our giggles were punctuated by the buzz of Brian's phone. End of shift. The holidays had begun. Finally time to relax!

* * *

The roads had gone to the dogs during the few hours I had been down in the steam tunnels. There had been a light dusting of snow, perfectly ensuring that it would be a white Christmas but now the snow was blowing hard and strong across the lake and onto the streets. Slowly I inched my car down the road towards the hospital, desperately hoping that Ned wasn't too badly injured. I knew either way that I would be up for the next six hours, making sure he didn't sleep but I hoped that he would be coherent enough to make conversation because I was beat. I'd had the job with the River Heights college maintaining their services, such as the steam tunnels, for six months now but the work still tired me out. I guess it was good because the more tired I was the less I thought about … well thought about bad things.

Thinking of bad things… I pushed the voice command button on my steering wheel just as I turned past the First National Bank. "Call Joe Hardy," I stated clearly.

"Calling Joe Hardy!" Exclaimed the car in its cheerful mechanical voice.

Ring.

"Hey this is Joe Hardy, I can't come to the phone right now. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message after the beep and I'll return your call as soon as possible. Beep. Ha ha, no seriously after the real beep!" There was a moment's pause and then came the familiar high pitched beep.

"Hey it's Bess. I haven't heard from you in a while and I'm getting worried. Please call back or text or Skype or Facetime or you'know something as soon as you can! Love you!"

I could feel my brow pucker. My calls had been going straight to voicemail since yesterday evening when I had returned his text after my shift. It was weird. He usually got off at 9:00PM (8:00PM here in River Heights) when the museum closed and he'd done his final security sweep. I didn't get off until 10:30PM yet he had consistently been waiting for my call every night for the past six months, even though it often was getting close to midnight for him. But the last two days he hadn't been picking up. Maybe I'd call Laura tomorrow morning just to check everything was okay, I'm sure Carson or Nancy had to have the Hardy's home phone number.

I drove in silence through the deserted streets for a couple more minutes, more caught up in my own thoughts than was probably safe to be while behind the wheel of a car. Before long I saw the LED lights of the emergency sign for the hospital and pulled in, happy for the break from driving even though I was dreading the state I might find my friend. Concussions could be caused by a wide number of incidents, I knew only too well.

I did the quick jog from my car to the entrance of the Emergency room stupidly without doing up my jacket, allowing snow to splatter down the front of my coveralls. I shivered as the automatic doors swooshed open, peering through the overpowering fluorescent light searching for Ned.

I saw the red hair first.

"Nancy?!" She jumped, guilt deeply etched in her tired face. I narrowed my eyes, "What's going on here? What did you get Ned into this time?"

The blush didn't so much steal across her face as incapacitate her blood vessels, making her seem like she was on fire despite the cold.

"I-I didn't do anything. He was here when I came."

I squinted harder. She was being dishonest about something. I'd been around her long enough to know her tells, "What isn't she telling me?" I asked Ned, always the moral paragon.

Ned, definitely showing the signs of a concussion, looked at the ground and mumbled something incomprehensible.

"Edward Coleman Nickerson," I barked, less sensitively than I probably should have given his condition, "You'd better tell me what the hell is going on here. I have been on twelve hour swing shifts for a week and am having a shitty day on top of it. Just tell me what happened."

"Joe's here," whispered Ned to his shoes.

My heart skipped a beat.

"In River Heights? Did he do this," I waved at the black eye and bandage, "to you?"

Ned looked uneasy but shook his head. Nancy took a step closer shaking with suppressed emotion.

"It's nothing like that," she soothed with her fake 'everything is fine' voice. I narrowed my eyes more and the guilt ground even deeper into her face, "He's here in the hospital. That is why I'm here. I was brought in to identify him."

I don't really remember what happened next but when I regained consciousness there was a doctor shining a light in my eyes and another one checking my pulse. From my resting place on the floor I could see Nancy with her hands over her mouth and her eyes full of tears. Ned had a hand placed gently on her shoulder, looking woozy.

I reached towards Nancy and she knelt down beside me as the doctors continued their check.

"How did he die?"

She looked at me confused, "You know the same as me. Blunt force trauma."

My stomach clenched, Joe had died the same way as his brother. He must have gone looking for the killer.

"Oh Joe," I sobbed, tears running freely down my face.

"Do you want to see him?" Nancy asked gently, wiping away some of the tears in a motherly fashion.

My stomach clenched again, "If they brought you in to identify his corpse I am not sure if I want to, honestly."

Nancy's mouth and eyes popped into O's as Ned shakily said, "Joe's not dead though, is he? I thought he was just hurt."

Nothing could be heard except the clattering of a nurse's pen on the linoleum as I turned to the rapidly blushing Nancy.

"Sorry Bess," she whispered, into what I am sure were my murderous eyes, "I just got official word about F-Frank today. I - I - I'm sorry."

Well shit, what can you say to that. I looked at her, into her eyes made of broken glass. The girl was holding the guilt of his death as one solely on her shoulders and it was breaking her. Words were never my strong suit so I just hugged her. And she broke down.

Now I have known Nancy for getting close to twenty years and I have never seen her cry more than a couple of minor times so it shocked me as I felt her warm tears soaking rapidly into the already wet portion of my coveralls.

"It's okay Nancy," I soothed, stroking her hair awkwardly as I watched the nurses and doctors shuffle nervously behind her, unsure of what to do. We sat curled together for a solid minute and then, just as suddenly as the waterworks had started, they finished and she stood up rigidly, offering me her hand. I gladly accepted, happy to get off the cold floor.

"Let's go see Joe," I sighed, trailing behind Nancy, my hand still clasped in hers.

"We'll have to see if the police and the troopers are done with him," Nancy mumbled, distractedly as we rounded the corner and saw Bert Bobbsey in full uniform in front of a door. I stopped dead, yanking Nancy to a stop, causing her to look back at me.

I could feel the colour rising in my face again, "Nancy what the hell is happening here?" I asked and, as she started to bite her lip I knew that it was definitely going to be a long night.


	7. Chapter 7- Joe- 21 December 2019

JOE

The 'interrogation' with the two law enforcement officials and the doctor was going about as well as expected, i.e. not very well at all. The trooper was doing her due diligence, ensuring that all information was accurate by asking me a million questions but my mind was a universe away. Little phrases would bring back memories and I would find myself off in the arms of Mnemosyne.

Fuck there he was again. Mnemosyne?! No one cares that she is the goddess of memory.

"Mr. Hardy?" Yelled a faraway voice.

"Huh?"

"Mr. Hardy I was just asking how you made it here on one tank of gas," inquired the trooper looking uncertain.

My mind still foggy it took me a moment to understand what she meant. But it was true 850 miles on a single tank of gas was unusually good for our bikes, even after we converted them to hybrid. Like three times as good as normal.

"Uh, I really dunno," I mused truthfully. Doctor Zhao rapidly typed notes in his tablet, still remaining silent.

Chief McGinnis coughed lightly but it drew the whole attention of the room, "We found these," he indicated four crumpled petrol receipts, "in your pocket along with about thirty bucks in change."

I felt my eyebrows pull together. Weird, I usually kept my money, and receipts for that matter, in my wallet.

"Where's my wallet?" I asked.

The Chief shrugged, "No wallet and no phone. That is why we had Nancy come down, we were going to get her to run your prints to identify you."

My eyebrows puckered again but then it dawned on me, "Was I wearing a red tie when you picked me up?"

Chief McGinnis nodded, "Yup. Red tie. White shirt. Black dress pants. Thermal underwear. Gloves. Hat. Boots. And a good warm jacket."

"That's my work uniform. Or at least part of it," I crowed, jubilantly putting the lego bricks of my brain back together.

"So whatever happened happened when you were at work," queried the ever more confused trooper.

I shook my head, "Nah that doesn't make sense. I have dress shoes for work. And a suit jacket. Anyway I remember clocking out," I paused, my brain working overtime, "and I remember getting my Christmas cash bonus!" I announced, remembering why I must have had cash on me.

"What is it that you do?"

"I work security at the Bayport Museum," I answered, desperately trying to put together the next part of the story. Suddenly it hit me, "Oh of course, I keep my phone and my wallet in my backpack when I am at work. I must have dropped it off at home when… when Mom told me."

The room went silent again. Even Doctor Zhao looked up from his notes to eye me. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Finally after agonizing seconds the trooper spoke up, "And here we are. At the crux of the issue. So Mr. Hawdy what exactly happened?"

I don't remember telling her but I must have. My brain and my mouth disconnected and I babbled like a child. I could see their faces, passive and that made me angry. This was horrible, why weren't they reacting. I was stuck and I just kept talking but they didn't respond. Why weren't they responding!

Suddenly there was a scream like a banshee from the hallway and the spell was broken as everyone looked expectantly at the door.

"Don't you dare 'Madam' me, I know your mother Albert Gene Bobbsey, now you let me in that door before I have to do something we'll all regret!"

Chief McGinnis pinched the bridge of his nose, a smirk playing on his lips, "Ah it sounds like Miss Marvin is here," he stated nonchalantly, heading to the door.

As he opened the door I could see the frazzled looking constable, doing his best to fill the door frame in order to prevent an irate looking Bess from entering the room.

"It is alright Bert," the Chief said calmly, "you can let them in."

Before Chief McGinnis was done his sentence Bess pushed her way in. The black and orange hair dye was braided tightly, leaving small curls of her naturally blonde hair escaping from the crown of her head. She frantically scanned the room before locking eyes with me. A beat passed before she rushed over and pulled me into a painful hug. I could feel her tears landing on the exposed part of my back where the hospital gown didn't quite cover.

"Well I think this is probably the weirdest day of my career yet," came the drawling voice of the trooper.

"Welcome to my world," mumbled the Chief.

Bess pulled back from me, still holding me tightly by the shoulders staring, looking through my soul, "What the hell Joe."

Another gentle cough echoed through the room and we all looked at the Chief again, "I think perhaps we should make a decision now. Doctor Zhao, what is your diagnosis?"

The tweed suited man nodded at the Chief and looked at his notes, "I am of the opinion that Mr. Hardy suffered a severe case of psychological shock leading to an extreme period of disassociation," Bess gasped as she sat beside me, clinging to my arm. "Even while we have been talking he has still disassociated, particularly during his re-telling of the events of his brother's disappearance and subsequent death," the doctor paused, adjusting his glasses and glancing at his notes before continuing, "I will admit that I have never seen a case where a disassociated person did so much and for such a long period of time, this leads me to suspect that you, "he gave me a gentle nod, "probably have PTSD and are used to living through dissociative episodes."

I looked down, a silent admittance that my "misspent" youth had left me with the intrusive thoughts and flashbacks that marked post traumatic stress disorder.

Doctor Zhao nodded again, "I thought so. Depersonalization and de-realization are both quite common. Taking this into consideration, in addition to dissociative episodes, it is possible, if not exceptionally likely, that Mr. Hardy here came from New York with no recollection of doing so after hearing about his brother's death."

Silence once again filled the room as the Chief inclined his head towards the doctor.

"Doc, can I ask jus' one question," queried the trooper, "Why'd he come here? It's a heckuva long way to come."

Doctor Zhao looked thoughtful, glancing around the room, "I know that you would like absolutes but I can't give you any in that regards. My guess would be that he was trying to escape his home town because it reminded him of his brother. He has a definite support group here," the doctor waved his hand around the room in which Bess, Nancy, and Ned were all squished, "so I am assuming his subconscious brought him here as a form of protection."

I felt Bess shudder with tears beside me and I laid my hand on hers wanting to pull her into a hug but hampered by my handcuffed wrist.

The trooper stood up and stretched, cracking several joints as she did so, before turning to the Chief, "Well McGinnis, I'm gonna roll with you on this one. Like I said, it is one of the weirdest traffic incidents I have ever covered."

The Chief nodded looking at Doctor Zhao, "Well from what you discussed I am pretty sure we have a similar situation to a Sleep Walking Defense."

Doctor Zhao nodded enthusiastically, "Exactly Chief McGinnis. Mr. Hardy did not have a conscious intent to commit any crime due to his altered state of mind."

"Right then," added the trooper, her face thoughtful, "What would you recommend?"

"Remanding him into the custody of one of his friends and recommending that he seek treatment as soon as possible."

And that was that. The trooper and Chief McGinnis agreed wholeheartedly with Doctor Zhao and all three left to fill out the mountains of paperwork that were destined for them. As the Chief left, wishing everyone a happy holiday, my three friends gathered in close, pulling up chairs looking like life had beat the shit out of them to varying degrees.

"Surprise," I exclaimed tiredly, waving my bandaged hands.

"Christ man, you scared the living daylights out of me," breathed Ned, lightly bumping his fist against my shoulder and smiling despite the fact that half his face was either bandaged or swelling.

"I spoke to the nurse and he said the next time the doctor comes by you'll probably be discharged," smiled Nancy with a tight grin.

"Can I stay with you, babe," I asked Bess, as she hugged my midriff, head nestled into my chest. If felt weird to hold her and be held by her. We'd only really had that one night of passion, other than that we'd been either running ragged trying to find Frank or on the opposite ends of an internet cable. Feeling the roughness of her coveralls and the softness of her hair was surreal, weird, but not bad.

There was silence and I peeked down at her, checking if she'd fallen asleep. Her blue eyes peered back at me with nothing but apology in them. I felt my blood run cold. Bess stirred, obviously having heard the change in my heart rate, even if it hadn't been telegraphed by the EKG.

"It's nothing personal," she joked, kissing me lightly, "I live in a three story walk up. You'd need functioning feet to do that."

"You guys could stay with me," whispered Nancy quietly, "We've got a guest room on the main floor."

"Awesome," I went to fist bump Nancy but remembered the bandages. There was a round of giggles from everyone.

"Hey wait!" Ned looked confused, "I was supposed to stay with Bess tonight," I raised my eyebrows at him, jokingly, "Nah man not like that. I've got a concussion," Ned pointed needlessly at his bandaged head.

"You can stay at Nancy's too," interjected Bess, leaving Nancy flopping her mouth open and closed giving Bess an incredulous look.

Ned swiveled towards Nancy who quickly shut her mouth, "Are you sure that is okay?" He asked slurring his words slightly.

Nancy sighed, her heart too big to say no even if it was going to be an awkward night for her, "It's fine Ned. I'd never turn out one of my friends."

* * *

You'd think I'd be used to sleeping in different beds after all the traveling I've done but there was something wrong about the softness of the guest bed at the Drew's house. Maybe it was just the fact that the painkillers had worn off, maybe it was the guilt but whatever it was I just couldn't sleep.

As quietly as I could I swung my legs off the bed and clumsily sat myself in the wheelchair that the hospital had rented me. A sliver of silver moonlight streamed onto the bed and highlighted Bess' sleeping form. She had been exhausted after work but had stayed up and talked with me well into the morning. She'd even supported me with the worst phone call I'd ever had to make in my life.

Nancy had told me about my parents and what they had thought had happened to me and under strict threat of tossing me out into the snow she made me phone them as soon as we'd gotten into the Drew house. It was a short call. Mostly a lot of crying on both ends. Plans had been made for me to fly out to Bayport the next day. And Bess had been there through it all, my last standing support structure.

I slowly wheeled myself to the kitchen, searching for a purpose but willing to put up with finding a glass of water. The bandage on my right hand caught in the spokes of the wheelchair just as I was entering the kitchen and I swore lightly under my breath.

"You okay there Joe?"

I jumped, jarring my bandage free, and looked wildly around, trying to pierce the darkness of the kitchen, "Mr. Drew?" I asked the slightly darker shadow.

The shadow flicked the stove light on and Carson Drew came into sharp focus as the pain I was feeling intensified 100 fold.

Carson shut the light off and said "Sorry I always forget how big an effect light can have when you are already in pain," the older man sighed deeply, "I was going to make myself some warm milk, can I tempt you?"

"Sure," I grunted, making my way towards the table where Mr. Drew had been sitting.

"I always remember Nancy complaining about that style of wheelchair," commented Carson placing a saucepan on the stove and pouring in some milk, "Apparently they are not made so you can wheel yourself around, you are supposed to be pushed by someone."

I grimaced, my emotions hidden by the darkness.

The silence stretched a little longer than was comfortable, "Sorry," he replied, "I am guessing stuff like that reminds you of him."

"Are my thoughts that loud?" I joked, halfheartedly.

"Something like that," came the reply from the stove.

We didn't talk until the milk was warmed. He'd put in a dash of vanilla and it tasted like a warm hug.

"Thanks Mr. Drew," I responded to the proffered mug.

I could hear the smirk in his voice as he replied, "You're old enough to call me Carson, Joe. ' ' sounds like I am about to depose you."

"Sorry," I apologized, pausing to sip my milk, "I've just been stuck in the past lately."

Suddenly Carson sounded twice his age, "You and everyone in this house," he replied solemnly.

We both sipped our milk silently, the darkness again acting as a mask, taking away the awkwardness. But the darkness also amplified the thoughts in my head, they were screamed rather than whispered.

"Why do you think it happened," I blurted out the question that had been plaguing me for months.

There was silence again, but it wasn't a restful silence. Carson moved and fidgeted before laying down his cup. His glasses glinted with the reflections of snow from the window as he placed his head on his templed hands.

"I don't know," was his reply. Calmly spoken. And it was a relief. Most people had a theory or an idea but no one had ever said straight out that they didn't know. It was refreshing.

My voice shook as I continued, "We weren't even really doing detective stuff for the past year. Frank was really focused on school. We just did little investigations. Nothing major." The tears came again, "We thought we were free. Our only enemies were the memories of what we had done," I paused, reflective, "And had done to us." Mr. Drew remained silent, staring at me pensively, "It should have been me," I muttered bitterly into my mug.

"Why?"

I stared at him, disbelieving. How could he not understand why it should have been me? It was obvious!

"I was the brat. The shit stirrer. The pain in the ass little brother," I started venomously, "For some reason the world treated us like we were equal but he was the better Hardy. He was smarter. More level headed. He loved and cared more. But everyone treated us the same. The police. Mom. Dad. We were practically the same to them, a single creature FrankandJoe Hardy. But he was better, he deserved to live."

"Joseph Hardy," Carson stated sternly, "I put up with a lot of shit in this house but I will not put up with you thinking that you were 'less' than your brother, let alone the idea that you 'deserved' to die," I was shocked, in all my time I had never heard Carson Drew raise his voice or swear. I hiccoughed as his voice raised louder, "Furthermore I know for a fact that your parents loved you both equally but as your separate persons. The number of times I got an email or call from Fenton and Laura bragging about Frank's scholarships or your sports championships was staggering."

"Then why did they give up on him so quick?" I yelled, anger coursing through my veins, spitting out my darkest thoughts from the past year, "They'd written him off before the call came in!"

"Because we've all been preparing for this to happen since you were children," shouted back Carson.

The kitchen echoed with the weight of the words being thrown around. The silence that fell pounded on my ears and pushed on my chest making it hard to breathe.

"What?!"

Carson breathed deeply in and out, forcing himself to be calm, "We're bad parents Joe. Me and your folks. We raised soldiers in our fight, not children. By the time we realized we'd fucked up royally it was too late," he took another shuddering breath, "The number of times we hadn't heard from you guys and thought the worst... We never wanted to lose any of you but you better believe we were prepared."

"What do you know," I spat, "You've never lost anyone!"

The darkness enveloped us again, masking two men's tears, of sadness or anger it was hard to tell. The clock ticked loudly and the wind blew nearly has fiercely as our thoughts.

"Do you know why I make everyone put their shoes in the closet when they come into my house," asked Carson quietly.

Anger still ran through my veins but his query confused me, "No," I said slowly.

"Because when I see shoes just lying there I think of Kate."

"What?" Of anything I expected from this stoic man reminiscences of his wife were not it. My anger was still racing but was being drowned out by my curiosity, "Why?"

"When I see shoes just lying there I think of Kate," his voice broke slightly as he repeated himself, "because one day we were just walking, going to pick up Nancy from daycare. I remember stopping to talk to Pete Corning and Kate ran ahead, crossing the street. I remember seeing her step into the street. I turned away for a second and there was a screech of tires and I looked up and there were her shoes, exactly where I had seen them last, just standing in the street," In the dim light I saw Carson's eyes contract behind his glasses, "And I remember thinking 'why has Kate taken off her shoes?' And Pete was screaming and the world was going nuts around me but all I could think of was 'why did she take off her shoes?'"

My stomach tightened and I instantly regretted my anger. Of course he'd lost people. He'd lost his wife.

"I'm sorry," I pled, truly meaning it.

"I know Joe," chuckled Carson sadly, "Me too."

The clock ticked loudly and I sipped my milk, my mind whirling. The darkness loosened the link between my brain and my tongue again and before I could stop myself I asked the question that had been dancing around my brain, "Does it ever get better?"

Carson let out another deep sigh, "They say that time heals all wounds," I nodded, disappointed by the banality of the platitude, "but that implies that grief is finite," my nod turned into stunned silence as he continued. "Even now I still wake up some days and think that Kate will be beside me and it is the happiest I am all day for those few seconds before I remember. Sometimes it is more like a sense of dread hanging over me, reminding me of little things she used to do and how I will never see them again. And on yet other days it is just a small note in the back of my brain. So does it ever go away? No. Does it get better? A little. On some days, " he paused, staring deep into his mug, "Can I show you something?"

"Sure," I croaked, my throat gummy with lactose and tears.

I felt my chair being pulled back as he slowly wheeled me out of the kitchen and into the hall. We passed the bed rooms and the stairs, cutting through the living room until we approached the oak door which I knew held Carson's home office. Quietly he pushed me towards the large desk, parking me in front of it. Then he disappeared into the darkness again, returning moments later with a large leather book and a candle. He struck a match and the light drilled into my skull but was not as bad as the electric lights. A chair was dragged next to me and Carson began flicking through the pages of the leather tome.

"Ah," he exclaimed, sorrow and happiness in equal parts, "here it is!"

He shoved the book towards me and as I squinted I felt my stomach drop. It was a photograph of Mom and Dad but they looked super young. Carson was there too, laughing. There was another woman in the photo who I didn't know but her resemblance to Nancy made it a pretty good guess that this was Kate, Nancy's mom. I squinted harder, there was a caption written under the photograph. 'The Happiest Day of Our Lives!'

"This was the day that Kate and Laura discovered that they were pregnant," sighed Carson, melancholy tinting his voice, "Neither planned but both looked forward to."

I looked more closely at the picture, both Mom and Kate had pregnancy tests in their hands and big smiles on their faces. I touched the picture lightly, tears welling up in my eyes again.

"We were all living together at the time in a brownstone in New York," continued Carson, touching the picture as well, "Your mom and I were just finishing up our masters," he chuckled, "Kate and Fenton were just ready for us to be done with school already!"

"You guys lived together?" I asked, incredulous. Neither of my parents had ever mentioned living with the Drews.

Carson laughed again, "Yup. For eight years or so," I raised my eyebrows in surprise, "My sister Eloise rented a room to your mother in her first year and I rented another one. Kate was a pilot at the time and kept a room as a place to kick back when she was in town."

"What about Dad?"

"He busted down our door after one of my cooking 'experiments' went wrong and the stove caught fire," smiled Carson, "He was still a beat cop then and just happened to be walking by. He stopped by a lot after he met your mother."

I chuckled. That sounded like Dad. Carson flicked the pages of the book over a couple and stopped on a page with a smiling woman in a hospital bed cooing into a small bundle while a laughing man in uniform looked on. I looked at the picture and my stomach clenched, despite the hair colour difference Mom really looked quite a bit like Frank. He'd always had the softer features while I took after my dad with a lot more angles and bulk. I ran my finger over her smiling form.

"Does it look like they didn't love him? Like they ever wouldn't care?"

"N-n-no," I stuttered, looking away from the smiling face. I wiped my tears on my sleeve and closed the book.


	8. Chapter 8- Ned- 20 December 2019

NED

There are many types of awkwardness. The general awkwardness of junior high school. The specific awkwardness of introductions. The pervasive awkwardness of talking to your parents about sex. But nothing, absolutely nothing, is more awkward than being trapped in a house with your ex-girlfriend and two friends, two of whom are going through one of the worst days of their lives all while having a concussion. Come to think of it I guess not many people would experience that kind of awkwardness. I guess I am just special.

I managed to avoid some of the awkwardness by riding with Bess instead of with Joe and Nancy in her car. Bess and I were pretty good friends at the point when we had Nancy (and her 'magical' disappearing act') as our common point of connection. We still were on friendly terms but it was awkward without Nancy. There was that word again: awkward. And that typified the ride with Bess.

"Should we stop by your place or mine first," she asked distractedly, forgetting that she lived only a couple minutes from Nancy's house and that it would make the most sense to hit mine first.

"Mine would probably," I mused, wincing as the street lights flickered in my eyes. She nodded hard, biting her lip, "How are you doing Bess?" I asked with trepidation as we pulled up to my apartment complex.

"I- I don't think I can tell you," she started, faltering slightly, "If I start I think I am going to break down and I can't do that right now.

As we slowly climbed up the stairs to my apartment in silence I felt wave after wave of nausea flow over me. I don't know how people put up with the sensation. I paused just outside the door my eyes stinging with cold sweat and my hands shaking as I fumbled with my keys.

"What kind of clothes do you think Joe'll want," I slurred slightly, trying to distract myself from my stomach.

"Huh?" Bess was clearly in her own world, likely wishing she was with Joe. I felt my conscience twinge guiltily.

And that was the end of the conversation for the entire errand. We threw some of my clothes in a bag for Joe and then stopped by Bess' so she could grab some dry clothes. Then into the den of awkwardness that was the Drew's house.

As soon as we stepped over the threshold Bess immediately ran off to be with Joe in the guest room, leaving me alone and blinking in the lights of the entrance hall. I mean I knew I wasn't going to be in for a particularly nice night, you know due to the concussion, but the level of weirdness/ discomfort present was unbearable. I felt like the specter at the feast… well maybe the opposite of that. The feast at the specter? Nah, that doesn't quite work…

I sat down and attempted to untie my shoes but my head basically exploded as I leaned over. And by basically exploded I mean I puked my guts out. As I slumped sideways, laying my head on the cool bench I heard a sigh.

"I'll get you some water," came Nancy's voice from the same vicinity as the sigh, "Just keep still."

In what felt like seconds Nancy was back, she lightly shook my leg, indicating that I had probably fallen asleep against doctor's orders. As I cracked my eyes open I saw, blissfully, that the lights had been turned out and the vomit had been cleaned up.

"Sorry," I moaned, as I straightened to a sitting position.

A metallic clink sounded as she pushed a cup into my hands with a metal straw. I was grateful for the straw since even the smallest lean or tilt of my head was sending shockwaves to my stomach. That was Nancy, always thinking of other. I felt her sit next to me, keeping a small distance between us.

"It is okay," she sighed, sounding tired, "I know how concussions can be," I tried nodding my head in agreement but it made me see stars so I stopped. "I'm surprised they said you couldn't sleep though," commented Nancy after a moment, "usually they told me to get lots of rest when I had a concussion."

I sipped the water slowly before responding, "The doctor was just a bit worried because I kept puking in the hospital. She wanted to keep me under observation for a while but my insurance wasn't going to cover it. That's why she said I should stay up for six hours under observation, just so I don't choke. After that I should be safe to sleep." As if by Pavlovian response Nancy yawned wide and I felt my conscience twinge again, "I really am sorry," I half pled, "I know this isn't… isn't…" I trailed off. What was I supposed to say? An ideal time? A good day?

"Ned, trust me, it is okay," stated Nancy firmly, flashing me back to the gung ho Nancy of yore. There was a light dinging noise and then I was temporarily blinded by the light of her phone. In the dim light I saw her eyebrows raise.

"What is it?" I asked, curiosity getting the better of me despite my injuries.

"Wah," she put her phone away, "Oh, nothing really." I attempted to raise my unbattered eyebrow but the swelling of my face stopped it from moving. Nancy giggled lightly.

"Come on Nance," I begged, glad to hear the small sliver of levity that was her laughter, "I have to stay up for another four hours at least, give me something to think about."

Even in the dim light I saw her eyes roll. "Okay then but you're going to have to come upstairs. That's where I have all of the case notes laid out."

I stood slowly, realizing that Nancy must have taken my shoes off when I was out of it. I blushed, because even though it wasn't, it felt like an exceptionally intimate action. More slowly still we advanced up the stairs towards Nancy's bedroom. As we passed the guest room I heard Joe crying while talking to his parents and I felt awkward again. An uninvited presence in a house of mourning. We continued our ascent.

As we stepped into her room I staggered backwards, it was unrecognizable. All the times I had been in it it had been so neatly organized. All books on their appropriate shelf, grouped by theme and then alphabetized. Never a dirty sock or discarded sweater lying around. The bed was always made WITH hospital corners. It had always looked like a showroom. It had been intimidating. Now the room was still intimidating but for a completely different reason. You know that meme picture from Always Sunny in Philadelphia? The one with Charlie Day's character manically looking at a wall covered with red string and documents? Yeah times that by four walls and you'd have an idea of what Nancy's room was looking like.

Nancy bustled around in the moonlight heaving aside laundry baskets and yet more stacks of paper as I moved towards the set of two chairs she had by the window. I gingerly patted the pile of clothes on one of the chairs, instantly glad I had as Togo's nose poked out from his burrow of made of dirty clothes. Although he was greying around the muzzle his little tail wagged like crazy when he spotted me and as soon as I sat down in his recently vacated seat he licked my nose and curled up on my lap to continue the nap.

Books were still being moved and papers flung as I glanced at the wall to my left. My stomach clenched again only this time it wasn't the concussion causing the problem. Every single paper was related to Frank Hardy. There were newspaper clippings about the disappearance, printed internet articles about his and Joe's exploits during their teen years, and even articles about the Australian novelist by the same name. Lists numbering in the high 500s documenting every person he'd ever helped put away adorned another wall and as I turned slightly saw the adjoining wall was covered in lists numbering in the thousands documenting family and friends of every person he'd ever put away. It was like being inside a spider's web of madness.

"Here's the case," exclaimed Nancy, plopping down a large stack of papers, her laptop precariously balanced on top, as she sat in the chair opposite from me. "George passed it on to me, kinda."

"How so I asked," still feeling uncomfortable in the den of madness.

"Uh well you know she got that electronics job out in Lawrence," I attempted to nod my head but stopped quickly as I felt queasy again. "Well one of their big clients is this private hospital and last St. Patrick's day someone broke into one of the rooms and trashed it."

Nancy paused, breathless, some of her old enthusiasm seeping through the torment of the past year.

"Okay," I started slowly, falling back into my routine of asking questions in the hopes of sparking a flame of inspiration in Nancy's mind, "but what has that got to do with you? Or George for that fact?"

Nancy's eyes twinkled in the moonlight or at the very least I saw stars at the right moment, "Apparently this person is a ghost," she started, wriggling with anticipation, "or at the very least a ghost in the machine."

She twirled her computer monitor towards me and though the brightness from the screen impaled my brain my curiosity roared louder than my pain. She pressed play and I watched as a formless person walked into screen bundled in a large winter jacket. They approached door 309, pausing only to allow a stretcher and an orderly to pass. The light on the electronic door lock lit up green and the person strode into the room. The clock in the bottom right of the screen counted off three minutes and then the figure, hood pulled low rushed from the room leaving the door open. Ten seconds later two nurses pushing a crash cart rushed into the room. Nancy stopped the video.

"Okay," I mused again, trying to think of an appropriate question, "So why don't the police just pull up the list of people who went into room 309 at that time?"

The smirk was back, "Because they did and even though we clearly see that the card was successfully used on that door there is no proof that anyone opened that door at the time."

"Wha?"

She nodded her head so vigorously that I started seeing stars just watching her, "Yup. That is why the company that George works for was brought in. The owner of the hospital is desperate to figure out what happened."

"Did they find any extra code in the reader, a back door, or something that would allow extra cards or not record something? Or just anything suspicious?"

"That is what I asked George a few days ago and she just told me that they cannot find anything. Apparently the owner of the hospital has put forward a huge bonus to whoever can figure out how this person got in. George heard mystery and sent it my way."

I squinted suspiciously, "Why is the owner of the hospital so desperate for this to be figured out?"

"Apparently it was his son's room. He was in a car accident on New Year's Eve last year and is still in a coma. The owner is pretty protective because of that."

"Oh," I paused, what else was there to say? "Do you have any idea how it was done?"

"Not yet but she just sent me the relevant code," beamed Nancy, "I am going to see if I can spot a pattern in it. I'll probably go over the video a few more times to see if I can spot anything… off…" And she was gone, absorbed in her work again.

Quietly I pet Togo, my eyes wandering over the room, a shrine to the death of Frank Hardy. As my eyes fell on the cluster of photographs pinned to the ceiling above her bed I heard the tell tale sounds of snores emanating from Nancy's chair. Carefully I stood up, placing Togo on my pre-warmed seat and went to grab a blanket from the floor near the bed. My heart sank as I realized that despite the chaos of the rest of the room the bed still had its tight hospital corners and a thin layer of dust coated the blankets, sleep was obviously not a key part of Nancy's life these days. As I stooped gingerly, keeping my head upright, to grab the blanket I heard a whimper from the chairs.

"NO. NO. NO," came a sudden shriek.

My heart jumped into my throat as I whirled around, adrenaline pumping. Nancy was sitting bolt upright in her chair, her eyes rolling so only the whites were visible. Quickly I crossed the room and placed a hand on her shoulder to shake her awake.

BIG mistake.

As soon as I touched her, her right hand flew to my throat choking me. I grabbed her wrist and pulled hard wrenching her steely grip from my throat. I felt her nails scratch deeply through my neck as I finally managed to work her right hand off my windpipe. But as soon as a did her left, claws out, came for my face, instinctively I grabbed it with my other hand and pulled Nancy into a none too gentle bear hug.

Speaking softly I attempted to wake her up. Her night terror was worse than any I had ever seen when we had been dating and I was out of practice in dealing with them but I knew that holding her tight so she couldn't hurt me or herself would eventually calm her down to the point where she would wake up. A minute of struggling passed followed by a minute of whimpering before I could feel the familiar stirrings that indicated that she was waking up.

"Wha- what's happening," mumbled Nancy, muffled by sleep and exhaustion.

I released her and shakily sat down in her vacant seat, my adrenaline wearing off and making my head feel worse. Nancy gasped.

"Oh Ned, I'm sorry," she squeaked, kneeling beside me and checking the lightly oozing scratches on my neck.

"What the hell were you dreaming of," I managed to wheeze out, wiping my forehead with a shaking hand. The tense silence that followed was answer enough. She was dreaming of that night. "Nancy, you gotta tell someone why you feel this guilty because fuck it is killing you," I paused, "And almost me!"

To my surprise Nancy laughed slightly, a mirthless laugh, but a laugh none the less. In answer to my questioning look she sighed and responded, "My psychologist said the same thing today."

"So tell me, Nancy," I begged, knowing that the answer would be no.

"I- I can't," she stuttered, looking at my blood and skin caking her fingernails.

"Why not?"

There was a pregnant pause before, in nothing more than a whisper, she said, "Because the truth will hurt you. And I don't want to hurt you."

It was my time to chuckle darkly. I pointed towards the congealing blood on my neck, "I think it's too late for that."

"You know what I mean."

"It's too late for that too," I added quietly. "It hurts more not knowing than it ever would knowing."

The silence was deafening and oppressive. Only Togo's sighing snuffles broke the tension. The quiet stretched for minutes or hours, it was hard to tell. Just as I was settling back into the chair, "admiring" more of Frank's case file a timid voice rent the air.

"Okay, I'll tell you," And suddenly the room was electric and buzzing. I could hear my heart in my ears and my adrenaline began to pick up.

"It all started the day before my Criminology 255 final. The Hardy's came up to Emerson to meet their friend Chet. Do you remember Dixon?" I nodded my head slightly, "Well apparently he is the Hardy's best friend. Small world, huh," Nancy took a shuddering breath, "Any way long story short they couldn't leave town so we all decided to go to Marco's pizza place, you know El Horno," I nodded again, hoping my silence would hint to Nancy that I realized she was desperately avoiding telling me anything of value.

Obviously uncomfortable she began picking her nails, "Well that was the day Bess and Joe, yuh' know got together so we were all joking about that. And then we split up, with Joe, Bess, Chet, and their other friend Tony going to watch movies on Tony's boat and George and Izzie going to Izzie's parents," She sighed again and looked directly at me and I felt my stomach bottom out as she continued, "And well Frank and I we went back to the dorm to study for my criminology."

I kept wanting to urge her on, having known everything that she had said thus far but I was afraid to talk, fearful that my speech would break the spell and she would revert to silence once again.

Breathing raggedly she continued, "We were joking around like we always did on the car ride. Joe was mostly the butt of the jokes and we were laughing at how influenced he was by Bess. F-Frank," she stuttered, "joked that Joe would tell Bess that he loved her before the end of the day and then said… said," she broke off, tears streaming down her face. Gently I placed my hand on her shoulder, rubbing my thumb in circles on the solid mass of muscles that was her shoulder blades.

"I-I can't d-do it," she sobbed.

"Nance," I started soothingly, "I don't know a lot about psychology and trauma. But I do know that if you keep it bottled up it will keep getting worse. Please tell me. If not for my sake at least for your own."

Nancy gulped several times, snorting the snot that always accompanies tears back, "He told me that he didn't think anyone would ever love him."

I blinked, surprised. "What happened then?" I asked slowly, finally starting to piece together some of the puzzle.

In barely a whisper Nancy replied, "I told him I loved him."

The impact of the statement stung slightly. I'd always known it. From the first time I saw them interacting I knew but it was something we had never spoken about. A silent rule. My reverie was broken when I realized Nancy was still speaking.

"And then he told me he loved me too," her eyes were piercing in their agony, "Oh Ned, I'm sorry."

I sighed, "It is okay Nancy. I knew you did. And I knew he did."

I expected her to relax a little bit but she continued to pick the skin around her nails as she mumbled under her breath.

I blinked slightly, "What? I didn't quite catch what you said," I queried.

Even in the pale moonlight it was plain that guilt was written all over her face, "I said 'that's not the part I am sorry for'," she stammered.

My stomach clenched yet again, threatening to expel the small amount of water I had sloshing around in it.

"I-I kissed him," she continued, "And then hands were everywhere. It was a blur," she rushed, blushing hard enough for me to feel the heat. "He was usually the one that would remind me of you or Callie but he didn't that time, he seemed as horny as me," My queasy feeling intensified and she pushed on, "We were in the parking lot of Piano Row but we started feeling a little self conscious so we collected our clothes and went inside so we could be," she paused slightly looking for an appropriate word, "more comfortable."

My ears echoed with rage I knew I couldn't express. As levelly as I could I asked, "So that's why you said I should hate you? Why you deserved it?"

She shook her head violently, "No, that's not the reason."

I felt the anger I was desperately trying to squash raise its ugly head, "Then why?"

And suddenly she pulled away from my hand and strode across the room to the other side of the bed, placing the whole mess of papers between us.

"You should hate me because I didn't sleep with him," she said shrilly, turning towards the wall and yanking a picture off it.

I sat in stunned silence. She didn't sleep with him?! My head hurt from tiredness, the concussion, and the confusion. She strode back over to me and pushed a picture into my hands. It was an old picture from the first time I had met Frank and Joe. We were all there laughing at a picnic in the Fayne's backyard. Joe was giving bunny ears to George while she was playing giant Jenga. Frank and I were doubled over with laughter, supporting each other, just in frame. My stomach panged with guilt.

Nancy was pacing now, keeping an eye on me while looking like she wanted nothing more than to bolt down the stairs. Suddenly she turned and glared at me, or rather through me, "We made it up to my room and we were making out on my bed when I remembered you and I felt guilty so I," she paused, the glare becoming a look of shame, "I asked to stop. And we did."

"I don't get it," I begged, trudging through the mire of my confused mind, "why is that a reason I should hate you? Be upset about what almost happened? Sure, but not hate."

Nancy collapsed on her bed, a puff of dust wafting in the air illuminated by the moon, "Don't you get it?" I shook my head, confusion clouding my every move, "If I'd have slept with Frank he wouldn't have been alone that night," the penny finally dropped. "He wouldn't have died."


	9. Chapter 9- Nancy- 21 December 2019

**Nancy**

I was still awake well after four in the morning when Ned was finally allowed to sleep. He gratefully climbed into my bed, a place but a year ago he'd been a welcome visitor but was now an alien party. We hadn't talked much after I had, in the safety of darkness, finally ripped off the mask I'd been hiding behind for almost a year. Doctor Wright had been right to quote Berthiaume, removing the mask had hurt. It had hurt more than even I had imagined.

I shook my head and tried to concentrate on the case George had forwarded to me. It was an interesting case. The inverse of a locked room mystery. How did a person get into a room without being noticed? But that wasn't true. People had passed the figure in the hall, the person had had to push against the wall to avoid the stretcher.

I sighed, glancing at the photograph Ned had lain on the table, smiling wistfully at all the happy people in the photo, people that for one reason or another no longer truly existed. It was frustrating, why Frank? Internally I chastised myself, why not Frank? He had just as many enemies as I did. Why was it any less surprising than if it had been me? Sentiment, I answered. Rosy retrospection, I elaborated.

He'd been my friend forever. I remembered his chubby cheeks pink with concentration as we worked on our first mystery, who ate Joe's cookie. I remember the glint he would get in his eyes when we solved a case, like when we figured out that Joe had eaten his own cookie. I remembered him from the awkward, bad skin, and crooked teeth phase. The excitement of his first kiss, of which he had shared all the details of with me over a Skype call that had made me cry. I knew I didn't understand because I knew the good and human side of him. The newspapers had a different story of him, alternating between a hero and a menace. A larger than life figure. He had been a paragon of good or ill, beyond humanity to a lot of people and in the cold light of day I could understand why that man might have been killed. But it still wasn't fair. I looked away from the photograph, the past aching like a bruise.

Ned's gentle snores interrupted the suffocating silence of the room as I turned back to my work, inching frame by frame through the video but nothing jumped out at me. I checked the clock and was surprised to see that it was already six in the morning. Coffee. I needed coffee. Stowing my computer under my arm I tiptoed across the room and down the stairs, guilt flooding my stomach once more. I wasn't supposed to drink coffee any more. Ever since Doctor Wright had put me on a regime of Propanolol for my anxiety attacks and night terrors I wasn't supposed to have any stimulants. But the dreams hadn't stopped and I still needed to function so I fell back on the most common drug addiction: caffeine dependency.

I didn't turn on the light as I entered the kitchen, preferring to stay hidden from reality in the safety of darkness for a few minutes longer. I placed my laptop on the table and expertly began preparing the coffee blind. I heard the squeak of the wheelchair just as the first drips of the blessed liquid began to condense in the pot.

"Morning Joe," I smiled, "Can I get you a cup?" I turned around to face the entrance and my oldest living friend.

"Did you know our parents used to live together?" came the reply. My hand hovered in the cupboard above a mug as I turned to face Joe.

"What?"

"Yeah when they were in university, apparently."

"N-no," I stuttered, turning back, "Dad never told me."

Joe sighed as he wheeled towards the table, "Mom and Dad never told me either."

"I guess we never really asked," I mused sliding a coffee cup towards Joe and sitting down across from him, "Isn't it weird how we can't really imagine our parents at our age?"

Half a smirk crossed Joe's face in the dim morning light of the kitchen, "We're pretty lousy detectives I guess," he joked, cradling the mug like a toddler with a sippy cup and drinking deeply.

"Hey, speak for yourself," I pouted, pretending to be wounded by his words, "I've got a big case and I'm this close," I held thumb and forefinger an ⅛" apart, "to solving it."

"What's the case, Oh Great Detective," ribbed Joe, holding both hands up in surrender. It was strange, pretending like things were normal.

I yanked my computer towards myself pulling up the surveillance video.

"March 17 2019 at 20:23 a ghost entered and trashed a hospital room," I smiled, the mystery or the distraction bolstering my mood.

Joe cocked a trademark eyebrow as he raised his mug to his lips, "A ghost?" I showed him the video and he seemed none too impressed. "The person looks pretty real to me," he argued.

"Ah but there is no evidence that anyone entered the room except for this video. The keycard didn't register and no one remembers who entered the room. No out of place fingerprints. No identity. The person didn't even leave through the front doors."

The eyebrows raised in appreciation as he clicked the spacebar to watch the video again. His forehead puckered, "There is no digital footprint?"

"None," I affirmed, "George sent this on to me and with her background in hacking I believe her."

He puckered his face again, "I keep feeling like I know something but it is on the tip of my brain."

"I know the feeling," I sighed, draining my mug of coffee and standing up to get another, "The whole world is just feeling a bit fuzzy right now and I can't seem to get a handle on anything."

We sipped our coffees in silence, watching the sky turn from dark grey to light grey.

"It looks like it is going to be crummy weather for the flight," observed Joe, glancing out the window with a thousand yard stare.

My stomach clenched, hurting due to the lack of food, as I spoke the words that had been pinballing around my head since Doctor Zhao had spoken to us yesterday, "You know you don't have to go if you don't want to." Joe didn't respond, still gazing out the window, "If you'd be happier here you can stay."

Weakly Joe looked back at me. He wasn't the jovial blond boy I knew but an old man, "I've never backed away from a fight before," he sighed, looking down into the dregs of his cup, "I don't think I can do it now."

A curl of anger spun up from my depths, "Even if it is going to hurt you to go back?"

He chuckled softly, turning to me, a hint of his manic personality shining through for a brief second, "If I don't go back I am hurting a lot more people. You know me, I gotta be the hero…"

"You can't save everyone-"

He interrupted, "No," he agreed, "But I can try."

I rolled my eyes and pushed on, "But you can save yourself."

He reached out a bandaged hand and placed it on mine gently, "Are you saying that if your family needed you, you wouldn't risk your own health for them."

I sat back, stung by the truth of his statement. He was right. I couldn't abandon my family and friends any more than he could. Even if it killed me I'd have gone back. I exhaled deeply again.

"Well I am going back with you whether you like it or not," I challenged, a steely glint in my eye.

"Us too," came a sleepy voice from the door. Bess sidled into the room with Ned right behind her. Neither even had the good grace to look ashamed for eavesdropping. I teared up, I had taught them well.

Joe looked flabbergasted, "Look guys you really don't have to…" he trailed off before starting again, "It's Christmas, don't you want to be with your families?"

"I am sorry to inform you of this," started Ned seriously, "But you are part of this big, dysfunctional, mess of a family that we call a friendship," he grinned and lightly punched Joe in the shoulder.

"That doesn't make any sense," smiled Joe, gently tapping Ned back.

Ned laughed, "I know, just like us!"

And the exhaustion caught up with us all at that moment and we all, maybe somewhat hysterically, laughed.

"You'd better call Bart Dawson again then," cooed Bess, carefully hugging Joe's shoulders, "Just to let him know that he'll have a few more passengers."

* * *

Bart Dawson apparently readily agreed to the extra passengers and late that afternoon, after a cramped taxi ride, we pulled into Midway International Airport. I paid for the cab as Ned and Bess helped Joe into the wheelchair and unloaded our sparse luggage.

"Where are we supposed to meet him again," Bess queried, chewing her bottom lip slightly.

Joe was looking confused, turning from side to side as we walked into the brightly decorated airport, "Uh he said by the statue for the battle of Midway."

"That's this way," I gestured, having been through the airport a fair few times. I quickly took point and led the group towards a statue of a man that looked like he was being electrocuted.

"Bizarre," commented Joe, taking in the bluish greenish copper figure, "would've never guess that this was the statue he was talking about."

"Ho ho ho," boomed a voice behind us. I saw Ned and Joe flinch in pain at the volume as a man who looked not unlike Santa Claus approached us, "Not nearly as weird as your used to, I'm sure," he boomed again.

"Mr. Dawson," exclaimed Joe, throwing wide his arms, "Long time, no see!"

The newcomer stooped to hug Joe before noticing the bandages and stopping, "Ah hell, what happened to you? Get lost in another snow storm?"

Bess, Ned, and I froze unsure of how to proceed but Joe just shrugged, "Something like that. You crash into any more mountains?"

The man laughed heartily, "Not recently!" He turned on the rest of us, "Ah I reckon you must be young Hardy's friends!" He bowed slightly, "I'm Bart Dawson, friend and former client of the Hardy clan."

We all introduced ourselves, slightly taken aback by the bombastic personality of the man but infected by his jovial nature.

"Right," he said, clapping his hands after the introductions were finished "my ol' tin can is over in the private hangers with flight plan filed so once we clear security we're good to go."

"This is gonna be a nightmare," muttered Joe as we made our way through the gilded halls. I didn't blame him. The TSA was pretty strict about having ID to fly and here was Joe without a scrap of identification except his face. We'd phoned the airport in advance and they claimed it would be possible but to build in extra time for the questioning.

Bess fretted, pacing back and forth in the small room that acted as a waiting area for the private hanger as we waited for Joe to clear security.

"Kid's had a rough time," commented Bart, sitting next to me and checking his watch, "Second interrogation within a couple days." I blinked in surprise, "Ah don't worry," he smiled, "I know the full story as Fenton knows it. But there's no point opening wounds right now."

I smiled back and was chatting to him about the case that the Hardy's had helped him with, which started with robbery from his armoured car company and ended with the discovery of half a million in gold, when Joe came in, wheeled by an airport employee.

"I'm me!" he joked, lifting the veil of worry that had been draped over our group. Bess rushed over and hugged him. I turned away. It felt awkward to be around a loving couple while Ned was here.

The snow was just beginning to fly as we boarded Dawson's small private plane. Bess and Ned, the two strongest in our group, hoisted Joe up the stairs as I hovered behind them with the folded wheelchair.

The plane was cozy with a set of plush seats facing each other on either side of the central row. Bess and Joe claimed one set of seats leaving Ned and I face to face in the light of day in the other two. We quickly taxied and were given the necessary clearance to take off just as big fat snowflakes began to fall over the Chicago cityscape.

The turbulence was bad until we broke through the grey clouds and the light shone through the windows. As soon as we were able to I dug out my laptop and set to work again. Ned looked bored as Bess and Joe got all mushy across the aisle but I couldn't face Ned, not after what I had told him. Why had I told him? He might tell Joe and then everyone would hate me. The darkness inside of me had been easy to explain in the equivalent darkness of night but now the light that blinded my screen also illuminated the cracks in my mask which oozed with guilt.

I stared at the blinding screen trying to focus on my work but knew that I was just staring mindlessly at the laptop. The sky began to darken but still I stared sightlessly watching the figure break endlessly into the hospital room.

"Nancy?" Called a faraway voice. I crashed back to earth, or at least my seat, with a jolt.

"Huh?" I cast my eyes around wildly. Joe was poking my elbow with an injured hand.

"Sorry," he began apologetically, "I was just wondering if you knew who the room belonged to?" He gestured at the screen still looping the video.

I dug through the paper file I had brought looking for the email that George had sent me, "Uh," I started lamely skimming my eyes quickly through the long email, "It was the son of the owner of the hospital. Kid's name was Rick Lynch. Twenty-eight."

Ned sat up straight. I had thought he was sleeping, recovering from his delayed bed time, but his eyes bulged with barely contained excitement at the information, "Wait a second," he almost shouted, "the hospital wasn't Saint Sebastian's Teaching Hospital, was it?"

I flicked through the email again, "Uh yeah. Why you know it?"

"Know it?!" he exclaimed, grabbing his phone and working frantically, "I wrote an article about it. The place is insane!"

Joe, taken aback by Ned's unusual show of exuberance, nodded, "Insane in a good way or a bad way?"

Ned shoved his phone across to me before talking to Joe, "Oh really good stuff. The head guy Pádraig Lynch is really big on helping sufferers of various mental health issues but particularly PTSD," he beamed, as always happy he could help, "His big push has been working with a double pronged attack of medication and something, something-," he paused looking for the right word, "eh something-genetics. It's all there in my article," he waved again at the phone in my hands.

I quickly read the story. It was a short piece on the practices of the hospital. They were using medications and optogenetics, light stimulation, to control brain patterns. The tests hadn't yet progressed past mice but it was looking promising as a way to combat post traumatic stress. I smiled at Ned as I handed his phone back.

Bess piped up, "I don't remember anything you wrote about any hospital out in Massachusetts."

Ned flushed, the bruises on his face taking on a darker colour, "My boss didn't like the story. Too science fiction, not enough reality," he scowled, "I think she had me write an article on the Kardashians instead."

Joe smiled at him sympathetically, "Well at least it is helpful now," I nodded in agreement, "If the head doc is doing some experimental stuff there are always people who are against it. Maybe somebody decided to scare the guy by terrorizing his son."

Bess didn't look convinced, "I don't know guys the son could have had his own enemies that wanted to terrorize him. From what George told me the guy drove his car the wrong way down the highway while high as a kite. Ran head long into an oncoming car. It could be the family of the people in the other car."

That thought sobered us all up a bit.

"I guess you're right Bess," I admitted.

"I usually am," she responded with a sardonic smile.

"I mean there could be any number of motives," I continued, "Falling out with friends. Pissed off public. Mad girl or boyfriend…" Joe suddenly went rigid, his face pale.

"Joe," panicked Bess, scrambling out of her seat and kneeling next to him, "Are you okay?" But Joe just sat there blankly, blinking with his mouth slightly open. Ned and I shot up and crowded around the blond man.

"Shit," swore Ned, worry plastered on the half of his face that wasn't covered in plaster, "Is he going catatonic again?"

"No," stated Joe, slowly but firmly. He turned towards me, "Can I see that video again?"

Wordlessly I grabbed the computer and slid it into his lap. Clumsily he blew up the video, focusing in on the unknown figure. He played the video at full speed, half speed, and then progressed through it frame by frame. The rest of us waited with bated breath.

The suspense was killing me, "What do you see Joe?" I urged, confused but hopeful.

"There is this lady who works in the museum," started Joe, still speaking slowly, watching the video, "Tempe, she is an anthropologist by trade, " Ned, Bess, and I all nodded but confusion marked our faces. "Anyway we were talking one lunch about people watching and were doing that Sherlock Holmes thing," he gestured wildly, "where you try and deduce everything about a person just from their appearance when this girl comes in," Bess tutted and looked hurt, "So anyway I go first and am telling her about his girl's age and other dumb shit when Tempe turns to me and says, 'but you missed something huge' and I'm like 'yeah? What?' and she tells me," he squinted hard, trying to remember, "she told me the girl was pregnant."

The air of confusion continued after he finished his statement.

"And…?" Asked Ned, waving his hand in a circular motion, the universal sign to continue.

"Well she couldn't have known. And I called her out on it but she explained," Joe scrunched his eyes in the effort of remembering again, "That a pregnant person's walk is one of the first things to change since the hips widen almost right away in preparation for the birth. It causes the women to lean back and keep their knees straighter than normal," he cast his eyes at the video again and we all watched as the figure, knees a little too straight, leaning a little too far back, walked into frame, "It's subtle but I think the person who did the damage at the hospital was pregnant."

A stunned silence rang through the plane as we all watched the video again. We continued to watch seeing the slightly weird walk when suddenly the PA rang out causing us all to jump.

"Er well," started Bart Dawson, discomfort in every syllable, "we've got a bit of a problem guys."

The four of us shifted our eyes towards the now black windows, searching for the problem.

"It's nothing too serious," continued the voice on the PA, "But I just got told that all the airports in and around New York are snowed in. So we won't be landing there today."

Bess got up and walked to the locked cabin door and shouted through, "What does that mean Mr. Dawson?" She questioned, definitely nervous.

"Like I said, it's nothing too serious but it does mean that we are going to have to land at another airport," his voice sounded shifty instantly raising everyone's suspicions.

"Which airport Bart?" Yelled Bess, an air of panic seizing her.

"Logan International is the closest one with an open runway," pled the voice on the other side of the address system.

My stomach bottomed out. Not Logan International. Anywhere but there.

"Sorry folks," said Bart, softly, "I know it's the last place you want to go but we are going to have to land in Boston."


	10. Chapter 10- Bess- 21 December 2019

**BESS**

As the wheels bumped and the plane juddered into Logan International Airport my stomach was filled with bile more than the regular butterflies that traditionally accompanied a descent. Both Joe and Nancy were ashen faced, clutching their arm rests for support they wouldn't get.

After sheltering the plane in the private hanger Bart Dawson met us in the waiting room. It looked the same as the one in Chicago except it felt much more claustrophobic, filled with the tension of being back in Boston.

"Well kiddos," exclaimed Bart in a forced jovial nature, "Air traffic control says we won't be getting into the New York or Bayport area until at least noon tomorrow."

"Shit," mumbled Ned, the only one of us that seemed able to articulate any words.

"We'll be out of here in no time flat," continued the older man, grabbing the back of Joe's wheelchair and walking towards the exit, "I have some credit with a local motel lets see if we can get some rooms."

And thus we began our sullen parade through the airport, the festive decorations mocking our anxiety. As we passed through the sliding doors we were greeted by thick flakes of snow falling through the black night. Awkwardly we clamoured into a waiting minivan taxi and Bart gave directions to the motel.

The snow blew against the windscreen like that old starfield screensaver, hypnotizing me, making me drowsy. My dreams acted not so much as a subconscious release but as a time machine, transporting me back to the end of April.

It had been a surreal time. The extraordinary nature of the events coupled with the lack of sleep led Boston as a whole to feel like it was from an altered state of consciousness, kinda like the Upsidedown but scarier because it was real. And then the break had come.

The security footage from the Piano Row dorms had been scoured and they found, in the blind spot of the footage, a foot. That was it. Since the lights in the stairwell had been non-functioning at the time all of the footage from the stairwell cameras had been useless portraits of darkness. A burnt out battery in the exterior one had nullified any help it might have been. This left but one camera in the foyer, pointed uselessly into a corner so that students could sneak beer and other contraband into the dormitory. So the big break was a foot flashed in frame for a few seconds. Frank's foot, still laced into his hightops, leaving the dorm at 1:00AM, dangling precariously several feet above the ground. This was long after Nancy and him had finished studying and hit the hay and even if it hadn't been obvious the fact that he was slung over someone's shoulder proved that he had indeed been kidnapped. It wasn't much but it was the beginning of a timeline.

A nondescript car with stolen plates had been the next checkpoint in the timeline, chased via security cameras to a deadend. Then the news went public and it wasn't the lack of information that was the problem, it was the abundance of it. Then we had gotten the tip off about the dump.

Everyone thinks I am the wussy one in our group apparently because of my trepidation about breaking and entering or going in guns blazing into an unknown situation; maybe it is because I like soft things and romance, but the truth is I can hold my own in most situations even if I don't want to be there. That being said being present for the opening of that drum was the worst thing I have ever experienced.

Joe and Nancy's experience and background had finagled us an invite to the opening, for good or ill. At first the technicians had scraped, photographed, dusted, and swabbed every inch of the sealed container. The hours that this took left everyone of us in the makeshift viewing gallery on tenterhooks, hoping and dreading in equal measure. Then x-rays were taken, leaving everyone shaken as the anonymous tip proved true, there was a body in this drum. Technician's clad in hazmat suits, gloves, and respirators then took crowbars and wrenched open the metal barrel.

The thing about reading books about crime or watching crime shows on television is that you can't smell the corpse. It is the most unforgettable smell I have ever been witness to and even now in the haze halfway between the real world and sleep I could smell it. You would think it would just smell like rotting meat but that is only part of the stench. There is almost a vegetable quality to it as well and disgusting cabbage and garlic overtones permeated the air as the technicians began to photograph, scrape, and measure again. A sickly sweet perfume like smell emanated from the drum subtly, but I am not sure if that was the flesh or metal being degraded by the copious amounts of liquid lye.

At that point I had to leave the room, heart in my throat and stomach heaving. Tony, Chet, George, and I hovered outside the room, the smell of decomposition having already sunk slightly into our hair and clothes reminding us constantly that it might be Frank in the drum. Nancy, Joe, Fenton, and Laura watched the whole procedure, as always the strong ones. Two days later the forensic reconstruction of the skull was complete and Frank Hardy stared back at us from the dead eyes of a computer reconstruction. If it wasn't him it was his doppelganger. Fenton and Laura went home in tears, their worst fears realized.

Nancy and Joe didn't give up though. Even from their homes they fought still. Could dental records be confirmed? No, too much damage. Mitochondrial DNA from the bones? No, the lye degraded it. What about that time he broke his wrist? Unable to tell, too much damage. The technicians worked tirelessly, but the final blow came when a small smear of blood had been matched within 99% likelihood to Frank. I knew Joe felt defeated at that point, hope had been slowly drained from him waiting for results but from then on it was gone. He still had fought but more like an automaton, mindlessly.

My reverie was shaken as the cab came to a jerky stop, sliding slightly on black ice in an intersection. The cabbie was happily talking with Bart Dawson in the front seat while all of us exhausted, beat up, and beat down twenty-something year olds stared morosely into the darkness that surrounded us.

Within a few minutes we pulled into a small but tidy motel, clumsily, slipping on the ice we disembarked from the van stretching our tired bodies. Wordlessly we traipsed into the lobby where a bored looking lady was reading a well thumbed paperback.

Boyish smile on his face Bart Dawson slid up to the counter, beaming at the indifferent woman, "Why hello," he began warmly, "Would you happen to have any rooms to let for me and my posse here?" He joked, waving at us all, playing up his accent.

Wordlessly the reception clerk clicked a few buttons on the computer and frowned slightly, "Sorry sir," she replied without feeling, "we have one suite available but it only has two beds."

Dawson's brows puckered comically, "Do you have any portable cots you could rent us," he asked, some bounce taken out of his bungee.

"Sure," mused the receptionist taking in our bedraggled group, "but for safety reasons we can only allow one extra cot per room."

Bart glanced at us, shrugging, looking for an answer.

"That'll be fine," grinned Nancy with her fake smile, answering for the group.

Bart clapped his hands together, rubbing them heartily, "Perfect," he crowed, " handing over his rewards card to redeem the free stay at the motel. The woman handed over the keycard, barely sparing us a second look before returning to her novel.

And so we trudged on, Nancy and Ned struggling to carry the cumbersome cot, over the icy sidewalk to room 109. The room was clean and had more care given to it than the receptionist would've led us to believe was possible for the motel. The cot was set up, the baggage stowed, and the five of us sat staring uncomfortably at each other.

Unable to stand the tension Bart stood up, again clapping his hands, obviously a nervous tick of his. "Right then," he exclaimed, "I am going to go get us some food! Everyone hear eat pepperoni pizza?" The rest of us mutely nodded, all attempting to mirror Bart's jovial nature but failing to do so to varying degrees, "Perfect," he exclaimed again, hands rubbing together as he left the room.

As the door swung shut Nancy grabbed her small bag and sat down heavily at the small table. It wobbled annoyingly as she thrust her laptop onto the table, flicking up the screen.

"Hey Joe," she called, preoccupied, "Do you have the email of that anthropologist you work with?"

I had been starting to help Joe re-wrap his bandaged hands and he winced as the cotton swabs came loose revealing the oozing, blistered, and blackened lumps that were his fingers. The smell reminded me of the drum. My stomach clenched as I was taken back on a wave of memories.

"Uh," started Joe, forehead creased, "I don't have it memorized but it should be in my email"

Nancy spun the computer towards him, Gmail already pulled up. Joe gingerly waved his damaged fingers and Nancy grimaced, the smell wafting her way as she turned back her laptop.

"Same email address as I've got?" she queried, typing rapidly.

"Yup," groaned Joe, flinching away as I slowly began to coat his fingers in antiseptic, "Password is romeo - nine - capital Cain - capital Hotel - capital Kilo - papa - capital Juliet- eight - capital Mike," he breathed out deeply finishing his line of phonetic alphabet.

"Honestly, I'd have had an easier time just remembering the lady's email than that rigmarole," chuckled Ned, coming out of the bathroom with a glass of water.

Nancy was muttering under her breath typing in the password carefully before turning back to Joe, flipping the computer around so he could verify the address and password. Joe nodded, flexing his fingers slightly.

"Strange," Nancy mused as she clicked enter and waited for the motel's horrible internet to work, "I always thought that 'C' was Charlie phonetically."

"It can be either," agreed Joe, through gritted teeth as I began the painful job of rebinding his fingers, "during the Vietnam War they used Cain because Charlie was associated with the Viet Cong. I just felt it was more fitting for me."

An awkward silence followed that pronouncement as Nancy bent further over her laptop and Ned suddenly became very interested in the crappy watercolour painting that comes standard in cheap motels.

"I got an email from her not too long ago so it should be at the top of my inbox."

"Tempe," breathed Nancy under her breath, as she scrolled through the list, suddenly there was a ding as an email was incoming. She flipped the computer back to Joe, "Looks like you've got a high priority email."

Gingerly Joe took the computer in his hands and clumsily clicked the read button. But his interest quickly turned to disgust, "This guy keeps emailing because of that article I wrote for the Vidocq Society. He wants me to speak at his class but he never returns my emails and whenever I phone the number he gives I get told that no such number exists."

Still angry Joe went to hand the laptop back to Nancy but it slipped from his freshly bandaged hands. Time froze as the computer plummeted towards the floor and reflexes I didn't know I had caused me to grab it. I glanced at the screen to make sure nothing had broken when the email signature jumped out at me.

_…__. I really hope that you can help me out!_

_Regards,_

_H. Edward Lynch-Park  
__172-1625 ext. 48_

As I handed Nancy back the computer I couldn't help but think something was wrong with the email. Maybe it was because of the name Lynch and the ties to Nancy's case but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was strange. Even as Nancy wrote her email to Joe's colleague and the boys talked quietly I continued to ponder Joe's bizarre email correspondent, so I did the thing I always did when I over thought anything, I called someone who was logical and no nonsense. I called George.


	11. Chapter 11- Joe- 21 December 2019

**JOE**

We lived through hell. We survived. We thought we had made it through. But it dragged us back.

The same thought repeated in my mind as I sat watching the snow swirl through the hotel room window looking out at Boston, at hell. We couldn't have landed in any other town along the fucking east coast?! It had to be Boston.

I turned away from the window, disgusted. I didn't want to remember any more. Remembering just hurt me. Every goddamn time. But it was getting close to two decades that I had been solving crimes, and you can't just stop noticing and thinking when you have been doing that since you were a child.

I turned to see Bess thumbing through her phone, her eyebrows drawn together. If we had been any other couple hanging out in a motel a few days before Christmas after not having been together for half a year things would have been different… my mind drifted back to that night on Tony's boat and I felt the heat rise up my face. I sighed, imagining a parallel timeline, one where everyone in this room would have been considered normal. But we'd all been tainted to different degrees.

I turned back to the window just as a streak of light blinded me, intensified by the dancing snow. As quickly as they had come they turned off and in the dim light of the street lights I saw a lanky figure in an oversized parka dart quickly towards our door.

"George is here," I called as languidly as I could muster.

Bess quickly jumped up throwing her phone on one of the beds. It bounced and fell with a heavy clunk on the floor but she didn't seem to notice as she yanked open the door of the room letting in a cold gust of wind and her cousin.

"Brr," chattered George, brushing the dusting of snow that coated her in just the short distance between the car and the room, "Remind me to move somewhere warmer next time," she joked, as Bess enveloped her in a hug.

"You came!" squealed Bess, one of her pure smiles radiating towards George. The blip of unrestrained joy brought a moment of confused feelings in me. That painful feeling like your ribs are breaking because you are feeling happy, sad, and wistful all at the same time.

George looked around the room, a deep pucker indenting itself in her forehead, "I'll be honest, I was surprised when you phoned and told me you all were here."

"Not as surprised as we were to be here," muttered Ned lightly as he also hugged George.

"Yeah, Bess told me what's been going down," George gave me a hug, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"You can distract us," cried Bess, throwing herself down on a bed in a display of over exaggerated distress.

"Distract?"

"Yes," interjected Nancy, "we've been looking into that case you sent me and Joe thinks he has a bit of a lead. Do you think you can give us a bit more info?"

"A lead?" Questioned George, her interest piqued.

"Yeah, I think the perp was pregnant," I responded, nodding towards the laptop. "We've just emailed a person I work with who'll be able to tell with more certainty though."

George's face was in a paroxysm of surprise. "Pregnant," she repeated, "I don't know of anyone pregnant associated with the case but it is a start…"

"What can you tell us about the case," asked Ned, his notebook out of his pocket.

George rummaged through the shoulder bag she had dropped when she had hugged Bess. The laptop she pulled out of it looked like it weighed a ton, dwarfing Nancy's small computer as she placed it on the unbalanced table. My stomach tightened as she hunched over the keyboard and I saw my brother, in full on computer nerd mode, for a moment.

"Let's see," she started, scrolling through files, "I sent you the surveillance footage and you know the gist of Pádraig Lynch's operation: billionaire, genius, philanthropist. Think Iron Man without the tin can and awesome beard."

"What about the son, Rick Lynch?" I asked, "Is he anywhere as saint-like as his dad?"

George looked up from her computer with a sour look on her face, "Basically the opposite," she confirmed, "From what I gather the kid has been in an out of rehab since he was fourteen. Minor crimes checker his past but good old Dad has enough money and clout to keep him out of jail. Same goes for the press which isn't surprising given that Lynch owns majority stock in a ton of newspapers and press junkets."

She spun her laptop around to face us and the face of Rick Lynch stared back at us. It was obviously a paparazzi photo showing the 28 year old snorting cocaine off a glass table at a nightclub, if the reflected lights were any indication. Despite the darkness of the club Rick was wearing opaque Ray Bans. A large septum ring winked in the reflected light of a flash, complemented by what appeared to be a metal eyebrow but was actually a line of seven piercings over his right eye. His hair hung long in thick dirty clumps which looked like he had been trying to coax them into becoming dreadlocks and failed. Food and other debris clung to his beard completing the look of complete dishevelment.

"Charming," responded Bess, sardonically, wrinkling her nose.

"Yeah," George agreed with a look of disgust. "Anyway Rick here put the better part of $200 up his nose and then decided to take a drive. He crossed the yellow line and killed a family of three. Which is how he ended up in a coma."

"So what I'm hearing is that there are a lot of suspects that might want to do something to him," Nancy asked, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes.

"Yuh huh," concurred George, turning back to her computer, "Only problem with that is that nothing happened to him."

"Argh," growled the titian haired detective, "It doesn't make any sense. I wish I could see the crime scene but it is long gone."

At this George turned slightly pink, "Well, I do have a crime scene photo if that will help."

We all stared at her, disbelieving as she pulled it up on the laptop, not making eye contact with any of us.

"Why didn't you send this to me," howled Nancy, jumping up and pacing, waiting for George to find the image.

"Er, well," George looked uncomfortable, "To be honest, I'm not really supposed to have this. It is kinda maybe illegal to have. I might have just kinda spotted it on a desk and discreetly taken a photo," Nancy glared at her, "You work for the cops now Nancy, I didn't want you to get in trouble because of me."

Slowly she turned the computer and… well it was just a trashed hospital room. There was nothing special about it.

The bed and patient were missing, obviously taken to a safer location but other than that there was nothing out of the ordinary. A bouquet of flowers spread from a shattered vase. A heavy chest of drawers lay in a pool of saline. The IV stand lay beside the set of drawers, the end of it pinned under the heavy frame of the drawers. Cards and photos littered the floor, a timeline of a life that led to this hospital room.

"It doesn't show much," squeaked George to Nancy, "So I didn't feel bad not sending it to you."

Nancy stared intently at the photograph of a photograph, you could almost see a thought forming in her mind and strangely I felt the same way. There was something wrong about the photo but the pain, tiredness, and other shit going on in my head was blocking it.

DING

The ding of Nancy's laptop derailed any train of thoughts I was having and judging by the pained expression on her face I was guessing it had derailed Nancy's thoughts too. Grumpily and with the air of someone trying to maintain a single iota of calm she plunked herself in front of her computer. After a second the anger left her manner and a satisfied Cheshire Cat grin spread across her face. She beamed at me.

"You were right Joe," her eyes twinkled as she spoke, "Tempe just got back to me. The person in the surveillance footage is almost certainly pregnant!"

The knots in my stomach loosened slightly and my feet began to itch, mysteries may have gotten me into this mess but there was nothing quite like the thrill of being right.

"You know," I started, wheeling towards the area where George and Nancy were set up, "I think it might be time to go and see this Saint Sebastian's Teaching Hospital in person. Maybe somebody there can tell us something that isn't in these files."

George checked her phone, "It's only 6:30PM now," she beamed, "Visiting hours at the hospital run until 8:00PM and Dr. Lynch is always there until 9:00PM."

"Let's do this then," added Ned, clapping his hands together and grabbing his jacket.

We all followed Ned's example and donned our coats, hats, and mitts. Suddenly from all the kerfuffle I heard Bess' voice cut through the din.

"I can't find my phone," she panicked.

Remembering its bouncing trip I pointed towards the bed it had fallen under, "It fell over near where George is standing," I exclaimed.

George shook her head, used to her cousin's clumsy ways but as she was handing back the phone her eyes frozen and she turned the screen towards her.

"Where did you get this number," she asked, surprise flooding her voice.

Bess looked confused, snatching the phone away from her cousin, "What number…" She glanced at the screen and I could see a search engine open with the number 1721625 input. "Oh, I was just Googling this guy that keeps emailing Joe. His number doesn't connect so I was seeing if we were missing the area code."

The dark haired cousin grabbed the phone back, mouthing the numbers to herself. Then slowly she turned to us, a shade paler, "I have a question for you guys," she started, her mouth sounding dry, "Did this phone number have any other numbers attached to it? Say like a '48'?"

It was the rest of our turn to look confused.

"Yeah, how did you know," whispered Bess, her voice full of awe.

"Because I've been looking at this number for months now," George responded, a dead look in her eye, "This is the IP address for Saint Sebastian's."


	12. Chapter 12- Ned- 21 December 2019

**NED**

The sun had set over two hours ago yet we piled into George's crappy two door sedan on route to another mystery. Joe got shotgun as Bess, Nancy, and I squeezed into the backseat, our bulky winter jackets taking up most of the non-existent extra space. If we crashed we probably wouldn't move since we were wedged in so tight. The awkward silences that seemed to surround my every waking moment were alleviated slightly by the death metal George had been playing. It's really hard to think of anything when deafened by the distorted guitars and heavy bass.

Since I'd gone to school in Boston I knew approximately where Saint Sebastian's was, having hiked through the area quite a bit. It practically backed onto Hagget's Pond making it a 25 minute drive in ideal conditions. The drive took us closer to 45 minutes, with George's tires not quite able to handle the roads.

"How many times do I have to tell you," groaned Bess as the car fish tailed for the umpteenth time in as many minutes, "There is no such thing as all season tires when you live this far north."

George stuck her tongue out at her cousin via the rear view mirror, "And how many times do I have to tell you to put a password on your phone," she shot back. The tension in the car was broken slightly, George and Bess' tiny squabbles about silly things making it feel like the old days.

As we turned onto highway 133 the hospital started to come into view, or at least its walls did. The car reached a wrought iron archway and the expansive lawn, thick with snow, spread out running up to the massive manor house. And that was it, Saint Sebastian's Training Hospital, a great mansion with stone figures at the entrance and eight figures in the price. We all were shocked into silence by the grandeur of everything, George even turned down the music as we pulled into the well lit visitor's parking lot.

"Whoa," muttered Joe.

Bess nodded, eyes transfixed on the mansion, "Yeah, this place reeks of money."

George quickly got out of the car, clicking back the front seat allowing us poor sardines in the backseat to ooze out. "I really don't know, something about it always gives me an Arkham Asylum feeling," she admitted as she pulled me out, "Like it's nice enough inside but you can almost imagine Hugo Strange planning his next scheme against Batman from the outside."

I nodded my agreement, looking at the dark exterior lit sporadically with pot lights. It did look sinister in the darkness, with the statutes casting long grotesque shadows as I pushed Joe's wheelchair up the path. A set of out of place sliding glass doors met us as we approached the front entrance, whooshing aside and enveloping us in warm air, rife with the smell of carbolic.

The interior was as different from the exterior as it was possible to be. It looked like any other typical hospital wing. Polished tiled floors, that neither pretty or ugly tint of mint green, the stark fluorescent lights; it was all the same as the hospital I'd left not even 24 hours previously. The cognitive dissonance was almost upsetting.

"Ah Georgia," boomed a voice from our left with almost a Bostonian accent, "It is good to see you so soon!"

A small man in a crisp three piece suit descended a couple of stairs to enter the main entrance. George flinched at the full use of her name.

"Hi Doctor Lynch," she responded with a docility that I'd never heard come from her but assumed was her "work safe" tone, "This is my friend Nancy that I told you about," she waved at Nancy, "And these are some of my other friends. They had a layover and were wondering if they could look at room 309 to get a better idea of the issue."

The Doctor's face broke into a wide grin although I noticed a fine patina of sweat break out on his forehead as he took us all in, "Of course, of course. Come this way." He ushered us towards a single elevator.

I was the last person in, pushing Joe ahead of me and the small Irish man yelled lightly from the depths of the elevator, "Just press for floor three, if you don't mind." I pushed the button for the third floor not that there was much chance of pressing the wrong button since there were only four floor buttons, B - M - 2 - 3, not too hard to guess which one housed room 309.

Slowly the elevator rose, taking its sweet time like all hospital elevators do to ensure that patients aren't jostled too much after surgery. The painfully slow ride was accompanied by a constant babble from Doctor Lynch.

"I haven't put anyone else in room 309 since the incident. I really want to make sure that it is safe before I put another patient at risk…" he droned on and on.

What seemed like hours but was actually only a minute passed and the door slid open revealing the third floor. Another polished tile floor greeted us, flanked by five doors on each side of the hall. Only room 310 sat between room 309 and the elevator and we all trooped towards the door, uncomfortably silent. Doctor Lynch used a keycard on a retractable elastic clip on his belt to open the door to room 309. Nancy quickly stooped towards the door and Joe wheeled himself closer, leaving Bess, George, and I standing awkwardly beside the Doctor.

"What is it you do here exactly," probed Bess, ever the conversationalist, "Ned tried to describe it but I'll admit it went kinda over my head."

The older man's eyes twinkled as he turned to Bess, excitement over his craft in his every move, "It is really quite fascinating, young lady," he beamed, polishing his glasses, "My speciality is post traumatic stress and as such my primary patient group is military personnel although I do also see a lot of survivors of abuse and first responders to! A fair part of the stock and trade of the hospital is treating these brave souls and giving them the tools they need to be able to deal with the trauma healthily. However, this doesn't always work for every person which is where the other part of this hospital comes into play. We do a great amount of research on brain chemistry and patterns, trying to figure out how to possibly rewrite the traumatized portions of the brain, allowing the person a better chance of recovery."

Bess was being the perfect audience and her mouth was in an 'O' as she continued, "How would you do that?" She asked, awe in her voice as her eyes flicked towards Joe and Nancy.

The man rubbed his hands together, "I always find it easiest to explain it by example. What do you think of when you look at me?" He asked Bess with a fun smile.

"Uh," she mumbled, blushing having been put on the spot.

"Come now," the Doctor teased kindly, "Just the first thing. I won't be offended."

"Uh, pizza," Bess answered sheepishly, her stomach growling.

The Doctor looked shocked for a second before laughing, "I guess it is the dinner hour. Anyway, if I wanted to make you think of tacos instead what I could do is place light sensitive molecules inside the specific part of your brain that would be active when you thought of tacos. Then when you next looked at me I would activate a laser triggering those light sensitive molecules causing them to send a pulse of energy, not dissimilar to the natural brain electricity, to the part of the brain that was then active, namely the part of the brain that was associated with me. Then the next time you saw me your brain would associate me with tacos."

"Really?" Queried Bess, confusion etched on her face.

"Well that is our working theory as of right now," conceded the Doctor, "But it seems to be working with the mice in our current trials. But just think of the possibilities! A soldier comes back having seen things that are too horrible to comprehend. The trauma festers. If we can then rewrite the brain patterns that lead to the memories of the traumatic event we can help them get back on their feet quicker, meaning they don't have to suffer as long."

"Whoa, that is pretty impressive," exclaimed George, looking impressed.

"It might not be ready for human trials in my life time but I hope that this hospital can do something for all of these brave souls haunted by their memories," the old man put a hand over his heart.

Suddenly as small scuffle was heard behind us and we turned to face Joe and Nancy. The group collectively gasped as we saw Joe, slip to his knees from his wheelchair a pained but determined look in his eye.

"JOE," shrieked Bess, hurrying over to him. I was close on her heels ready to haul him back into his chair.

"It's fine," grunted Joe, pain still distorting his face, "I just wanted to get a closer look at the doorknob."

"We think we've found something," exclaimed Nancy, with suppressed excitement brimming in her voice.

"WHAT," screeched Doctor Lynch, jumping forward with speed I would not have attributed to him.

Joe pointed towards the metal plate that held the latch bolt in place, "Yeah, if you look closely at the screws holding the latch in place you can see a gummy residue."

The Doctor kneeled beside Joe, peering closely at the screws, "Well, yes, but what does it mean?!"

"It might be easier to show you," beamed Nancy, already digging through her bag.

Joe gave me a look, plainly a silent plea to help him back into his wheelchair and as I moved forward Doctor Lynch turned his attention to Joe.

"What happened to you?" He asked gently, as he helped me get my friend back into his wheelchair.

Joe smirked humourlessly at him, "Long story Doctor but let's just say when you get this memory rewriting science down I might just be your first customer."

Confused the Doctor turned away and faced Nancy who was beaming again.

"Okay, it's all ready to go," she said with confidence, closing the door to room 309. A dull click echoed down the now silent hallway.

"Right," started Joe wheeling towards the door, "for all intents and purposes this door is now closed and locked," he gave the handle a turn and pushed but the door stayed closed.

"However," interjected Nancy, as if Joe and her had planned this little TED talk for us for weeks, "If I were to do this," she stooped blocking the door for a few seconds, "It opens right up for me," she finished, shoving the door open.

You could practically hear crickets as the Doctor, George, Bess, and I stared at the open door.

"You couldn't have picked it," came George's confused voice, "The door only has an electronic lock."

"It's actually easier than that," admitted Joe wheeling towards the door again, "It's just a piece of sturdy tape," he presented the door latch and we all saw the tape from a fingerprint card loosely placed over the latch of the door.

"You see when the door is closed a small loop of tape is visible between the door and the frame," explained Nancy, demonstrating this fact. "If you then pull the visible tape it forces the latch in, opening the door," she opened the door once again.

The Doctor looked dumbstruck but George had a dirty look on her face, "But what about the fact that a keycard didn't register. You saw the surveillance tape, the perp clearly used a keycard! The little light turned green and everything. Why didn't it register on our system."

"Do you have a way to check that system right now?" Asked Joe, a smirk climbing his face too.

George rifled through her backpack quickly, pulling out her computer and plugging into the electrical outlet beside room 309, her back to the wall. Her fingers were blurs as she tapped into the security system for the hospital, a long list of code covering the screen.

"Okay so we'll do a control test first," Nancy stated, waving a speechless Doctor Lynch towards the keycard reader. He scanned his card. With two seconds delay I saw a new line of code enter on George's screen, no doubt telling her that Doctor Lynch had just used his keycard on room 309.

Nancy moved towards the closed door and pulled the visible loop of tape but didn't open the door, "Okay now let's test our theory. If you please Doctor Lynch," she waved him towards the keycard reader again. The Doctor scanned his card and we all saw the light turn green, however, no new line of code appeared on the computer screen. The Doctor scanned the card again but again no code appeared.

George stared at her screen as if she'd never seen it before, "Oh my god," she muttered, still transfixed, "It was that simple."

Doctor Lynch was very pale looking, staring between George and Nancy, "But- but who did it? Can it be stopped from happening again?"

The laptop closed with a snap and George slowly stood to face the older man, "We can definitely stop this from happening again," she stated, her professional tone back in place, "We'll change a few lines of code and we should be able to tell if someone's card is scanned even after the door is opened…"

"As for the who," began Joe as he attempted to run his bandaged hands through his hair and failing miserably, "We know that they had a keycard which should narrow the suspect pool down quite a bit and-," he paused, looking at the Doctor, "we know they were pregnant."

Whatever reaction I was expecting when we dropped this news on the Doctor it wasn't the reaction we got. He quickly turned beet red, the blotchy skin even showing through his thinning hair making it look like he was glowing, as the colour shone through the thin, fair hair. But as quickly as it came it passed, the colour receding leaving only two dark patches, one on each cheek.

"Thank you Miss Fayne," Doctor Lynch stated coldly, his eyes hollow, all signs of the excited showman of only a few minutes ago gone. "If you all would like to come down to my office I think I have a cheque to write," he continued, trying to force some levity back into his voice and failing.

George, Bess, Nancy, and I knelt down to where the laptop was set up, trying to quickly pack all of the wires back into George's backpack. It was awkward though as the Doctor stood looking over us, obviously miles away.

"Huh, strange," mumbled Bess, as she unplugged the power cable.

"What is?" Asked Nancy, as she unzipped the bag, allowing Bess to drop the cables inside.

"Oh nothing really," Bess replied, chewing on her lip, still staring at the power outlet, "These things are usually labeled with the floor number first and then the outlet number but this one starts with a five even though it is on the third floor."

I stared at the little number plate attached to the outlet. It stated that it was outlet 5-003 which didn't seem weird to me but Bess definitely had more experience than me in these cases so maybe it was weird but also not very important right now.

We all boarded the small elevator and in silence traveled down to the basement. The sterile white tile floors stretched by rooms with windows, showing laboratories filled with mice. No people were down here and our silence was amplified by the sound of our loud footsteps.

Bess was pushing Joe, again staring at the electrical outlets. I could hear her muttering to herself very quietly, "2-001, 2-002, 2-003-" continuing until we reached the end of the hallway.

The meeting in Doctor Lynch's office was short and almost silent. He thanked each of us individually and handed George a cheque. Judging by the slight eye bulge and stuttered thank yous I guessed it had been a pretty large cheque. And with that we unceremoniously hit the road, even the death metal unable to drown out our thoughts.

* * *

"There y'all are," boomed Bart Dawson, shaking us from our reveries as we entered the motel room, 'Fraid the pizza is probably cold."

He gestured at several large boxes of El Horno's Pizza. I leapt forward hungry but the other four stood rooted to the spot staring at the pizza.

"What's up guys," I slurred, taking a huge bite of pepperoni, "Marco from El Horno makes the best pizza in Boston."

"Yeah, we know," mumbled Joe sourly, "That's where we ate that- that," he stuttered, "that night." My stomach sank as it dawned on me that El Horno was probably Frank Hardy's last meal and the chorus of long faces surrounding me confirmed it.

Bess sat down on one of the beds, staring at the pizza, a quizzical look on her face, "I've got a weird question for you guys-" she started slowly, obviously not paying attention to the conversation, " Did Doctor Lynch look familiar to you?"

George, who'd been introducing herself to Bart Dawson, grabbed a slice of pizza, punching Bess in the arm lightly as she passed. "He's one of the richest men in the USA, of course you've seen him before."

Joe shook his head, placing a hand on Bess' knee, "No, I know what you mean. I feel like I must have met him somewhere before." Even Nancy nodded her agreement.

"You think he knows who did the B&E?" asked George, conversationally.

"Oh yeah," nodded Nancy and Joe in unison.

"Normally when you guys wrap up a case it feels like a weight has been lifted off but this one seems to have left us buried even deeper in questions," I moaned, sitting down next to Bess, my head throbbing.

"Agreed," groaned Joe, stretching out his hand for a fist bump.

I pulled out my notepad and paper ready to write down all of the loose threads, "First we've got the good Doctor covering up who committed the crime. A pregnant lady running around trashing hospital rooms. And mister H. Edward Lynch-Park sending emails with the hospital's IP address in them," I jotted down the mysterious Mr. Lynch-Park's name in my notebook and my stomach dropped. Was it that easy?

"Uh guys," I gulped, feeling myself go white.

"What's up Ned," Nancy said sharply, a note of panic in her voice, "Is it your head? Are you okay?"

I couldn't speak. I just handed her the notebook. She glanced at it worry creasing her face then a look of surprise spread across her face, a mirror of mine. The notebook fell from her hand revealing to the room at large the initials of Joe's email correspondent.

H. Edward Lynch-Park… H.E.L.P.


	13. Chapter 13- Nancy- 22 December 2019

**NANCY**

I lay in bed looking up at the white expanse of the ceiling, willing my eyes to close but not really wanting to delve back into the memories. We'd solved that case, sort of, and normally that would have been enough. But to be back in Boston at this time was unbearable, I needed a distraction.

Quietly I slipped from the bed, careful not to wake Ned. I grimaced as the mattress squeaked and Ned muttered and rolled over. It was awkward sleeping in the same bed as Ned again, where we used to cuddle we now each had hugged our respective edges, neither one of us wanting to give the impression of taking advantage of the other. Gingerly, I grabbed my laptop bag, tiptoeing through the cramped room. Bart lay sprawled, all four limbs hanging off the sides of the cot, a snore nearly as booming as his voice filling the small room. Joe and Bess were laying with hands touching, each with a furrowed brow, showing that I wasn't the only one dreaming of bad memories.

Silently I made my way to the bathroom, shutting the door but keeping the lights off. The pitch darkness of the small room swallowed me up, giving me a moment of peace, a moment where I didn't seem to exist. Then I sat down on the closed toilet and cracked open my computer.

The blue light filled the small room, casting eerie shadows and reflecting brightly off the polished metal of the faucets and sleek porcelain. I pulled up the image that had been bugging me: the crime scene photo. Did this have anything to do with the call for help? We'd all agreed that we would investigate that tomorrow morning, with George coming to pick us up so we could visit the hospital as soon as visiting hours started.

Ned had come up with the idea that he would pretend to write a story about how the mischief maker had broken in, hopefully distracting the Doctor enough that the rest of us could snoop. Doctor Lynch seemed nice enough but his reaction to us solving the crime had been unusual, to say the least. Several years of experience had taught us all that people acting weird after the crime had been solved were not to be trusted.

I scanned the photograph of the trashed hospital room and something niggled in the back of my brain. I knew there was something off but I couldn't place it. My eyes roved over the screen trying to find the issue. Photos of Rick Lynch with family and friends lay scattered throughout the room, a bleak reminder that this crime had had a distinct target. Daisies, roses, and other spring flowers were strewn over the floor, the other victims of the crime, left to die. A dresser with the drawers half out spilled clothes into a puddle of saline. The IV tube that was pumping the liquid was pinched underneath the set of drawers, the shiny tip of the needle end just visible under the oak dresser.

Everything was out of place but in a way that seemed logical. Maybe the person had been looking for something, hence tossing the room but something about this photo was still bothering me.

Suddenly a gentle knock came from the door. I jumped up as if receiving an electric shock, snapping closed the computer. Duh, I reprimanded myself, of course people want in, you're monopolizing the only bathroom available to five people. I opened the door, hiding my laptop, unwilling to see the pity or exasperation in the person's eye if they knew what I had been doing.

Joe stood outside the door.

"Joe," I squealed under my breath, "You shouldn't be walking! Let me get your chair!."

Quietly he laid a hand on my shoulder, holding me in place. The bandages on his hands had been unwrapped and I felt the blackened fingers ooze into the fabric of my t-shirt.

"Something is off about that hospital," he stated matter of factly, ignoring my statement about his wheelchair.

I nodded, "There is something about that crime scene that is weird," I mumbled.

"Can I see the picture?"

"Come into my office," I said, waving my hand towards the bathroom, repressing a giggle. A half smile hitched its way onto Joe's face, reminding me with a stab to my heart of the boy he used to be, as he followed me inside.

Joe took the toilet seat and I perched beside him on the edge of the tub and pulled up the photograph. We stared in silence for a few minutes, allowing the chaos of the picture to sink in.

"How did they get the bed out?" Asked Joe, suddenly.

"Huh?"

He pointed to the screen and began tracing paths, "Look, any way you go towards the door there isn't enough room to maneuver a hospital bed because there are big pieces of furniture in the way.

That was when it hit me. I knew what had been bothering me about the photograph!

"I think I know why there is no path to the door," I began, feeling the suppressed excitement welling up inside of me, "I think the room was trashed after the bed was removed."

In the dim blue light I saw Joe's forehead puckered, "I mean, it's possible," he conceded, looking unconvinced, "But we can't say that for sure."

I felt a large grin cross my face and pointed towards the saline puddle in the photograph, "Do you see anything unusual here," I queried.

Joe squinted, leaning in towards the screen. His eyes roved over the photograph for a brief second before his eyes widened in shock and he slumped back against the cistern of the toilet.

"No way," he moaned.

"What else could it be," I replied, "You saw how Doctor Lynch reacted."

"There really isn't any other explanation," Joe agree, still dumbstruck. "The IV couldn't have still been in Rick Lynch's wrist when the room was trashed, since the very end of the tube is stuck under the dresser."

I nodded again, "Meaning that for whatever reason the person who broke in did not trash the room."

Joe shook his head, "We can't say that for sure. Maybe they removed the IV and then trashed the room."

"But then why wasn't that reported? Since the guy is in a coma that could be construed as attempted murder. Why just say that it was a break and enter?"

"And how was the bed removed from the room," added Joe slowly, an understanding light coming into his eyes.

We both stared at the 'mistake' in the photograph for a long time until Joe finally burst out, "But why?!"

And that was the question, why fake a room being trashed?

"Maybe it is his way of keeping his son hidden from the world?" I posited, searching through my mind for all I knew about Rick Lynch.

"I guess Rick would be looking at, at the very least, a manslaughter charge if he woke up," added Joe, thoughtfully.

"So maybe Doctor Lynch faked it all to keep his son safe!"

Joe shook his head hard, "I don't think so. He could just as easily move his son away to another private hospital without getting the authorities involved," he paused, "Maybe the break in is real but the 'good' doctor just used it to his advantage." Joe screwed up his face, "What I can't understand is the email for help."

"Well, maybe, Rick regained consciousness. His Dad can't let him out because if he does he is going to prison which would definitely embarrass the Doctor. You heard George talk about how protective of his image he is," I shrugged, "I dunno, maybe Rick is being imprisoned by his father."

"But why me?" Asked Joe, confusion and pleading in his voice.

I paused my heart dropping slightly. I knew the answer but it cost something to say it, "Because you would've been in the news a lot lately," I monotoned, Frank's face swimming in my mind's eye.

"Oh," stated Joe in a defeated tone.

We sat in silence again, barely moving. Eventually the computer went to sleep and the darkness and memories swallowed us both up.

"Do you think we put Rick in danger?" Joe asked after what felt like an hour.

I jumped as his voice cut through the quiet and the question cut through my soul. Had we endangered Rick? He'd felt it necessary to use a code to contact Joe, definitely indicating he didn't feel safe and there we were blundering around solving a related mystery. What if Doctor Lynch was paranoid and clamped down even harder on Rick because he knew detectives were investigating what had happened?

"Doctor Lynch did seem pretty upset when we left," I agreed, biting my lip.

"Should we call the cops?" Joe queried in a voice that made it clear he did not think we should. I mean what were we supposed to tell them? That we'd received a coded message that we think was from a guy that, for all intents and purposes, is in a coma and that he is being held captive in a well respected hospital by a well respected doctor and businessman! They'd laugh us out of the precinct and back to River Heights.

"No," I stated firmly.

"So we're just going to wait until we go to the hospital tomorrow?" Asked Joe, obviously reading my mind.

A grimace crossed my face, "The cover of night would be the best time to move the son. I think we need to pay the hospital a visit now."

A humourless smile spread across Joe's face, "B&E?" He sighed in an exaggerated manner, "Just like the good old days."


	14. Chapter 14- Joe- 22 December 2019

**JOE**

As I stood outside the liquor store shivering I realized that I had had a choice. I could've ignored the flicker of blue light under the bathroom door, washed my seeping wounds and gone back to bed. But no, I had talked to Nancy and now we were here, for good or ill. We'd debated about bringing Bess and Ned along but knew they would just tell us no. We had been afraid they would have talked us out of it because deep down we knew that this was a ridiculously stupid thing to do.

I looked guiltily down at my feet, scuffing them against the ground. I'd borrowed Bart Dawson's boots for this escapade since he had the biggest feet of us all. Though, despite the large size my toes still screamed with pain. I knew I really shouldn't be on my feet but the wheelchair would only slow me down where we were headed.

Nancy ducked out of the liquor store looking at her phone and carrying a plastic bag. The contents of the bag clinked and I looked at her warily.

"Our Uber will be here in a couple minutes," she informed me, tucking her phone away.

"Great," I started, a ball of excitement that always accompanied an infiltration stirring in my stomach, "What's the booze for?"

Nancy looked down at the plastic bag, "It's part of our cover," she replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Cover?" I questioned, skeptically.

"We are asking an Uber driver to drop us off in what is mostly swamp land at one in the morning. Don't you think they might consider that suspicious and report us?"

"Well, yeah," I conceded, "But how is beer supposed to help that? Are we gonna get the driver too drunk to report us?"

She rolled her eyes, her titian hair fluttering in front of her face as a cool wind cut through the parking lot, "There is a campsite about a five minute walk from the hospital. It is a pretty common party sight for Emerson kids. If we act a little tipsy and have booze the driver will just think we're going to a party and not think anything of it."

A small Honda fit swung into the parking lot before I could respond and Nancy dug an elbow into my side as a means of warning that this was our ride. As if signaled to do so both of us subtly changed our mannerisms to be slightly more loose. Nancy plastered a fake smile on her face and began giggling uncontrollably. She looked like a standard drunk college kid except for the corners of her eyes where you could see worry. I started to sway in a figure eight motion that I'd seen drunks the world over use, sure my eyes held the same fear. The car pulled to a stop in front of us and a kid who had to be about my age rolled down the window.

"Nancy Drew?" Asked the young man, seeming almost frightened. I didn't blame him. Driving and Uber at night had to be a bit of a scary gig.

"Yup," giggled Nancy, pulling my coat sleeve as we headed clumsily toward the rear seats. As we ducked in the driver spun around to face us.

"It says you're heading to Haggets Pond Conservation Area," he looked concerned, obviously worried that we were too drunk to know where we were going, "Is that right?"

"Uh huh," I slurred.

Nancy giggled some more, "We've got a campsite there!" She announced in the self assured manner of a toddler.

The driver merely nodded wearily and took off. Nancy and I babbled to each other in the back seat, purposely annoying the poor man until he turned up the music to drown us out. Under the cover of noise I leant over Nancy as if to give her a kiss. She stiffened unsure of how to respond but I just whispered in her ear, "I think your passenger rating is about to take a hit," I joked, as the driver gave us a dirty look from the front seat. I knew Nancy would tip him well for his trouble but it still felt weird to be a jerk to some poor guy just doing his job. Playing against type was always the hardest part of undercover work. I slumped back heavily into my seat and Nancy giggled some more and the charade continued.

Twenty minutes later the Uber driver metaphorically washed his hands of us, fully sure we were just dumb drunk kids, as he dropped us off at Haggets Pond Conservation Area. Nancy and I 'drunkenly' staggered through the snow towards the campsite just long enough to ensure that the beleaguered driver had turned back onto the main highway before we detoured and headed towards Woodhill Road Trail which would take us to the backside of Saint Sebastian's. Nancy quickly ditched the beer, possibly making some drunken Emerson student's day in the near future, as we trudged along the walking paths through the Conservation. The snow was deep along the trail and my feet quickly numbed both relieving me of pain and scaring me of the long term consequences.

True to Nancy's calculations we arrived at the wrought iron fence that surrounded the hospital's grounds in about 5 minutes. The fence was six feet tall and normally I could have vaulted it easily but with my hands and feet damaged such a show of athleticism was not going to happen. Slowly Nancy and I walked along the fence line looking for a way in. My time in security had heightened my awareness of poor security planning so I had an idea of what to look for: a driveway.

I know it sounds like a dumb place to get in because a drive way is one of the places that is most likely to be guarded or hooked up to security cameras but this far north and with this much snow, places tend to have huge snow piles pressed right up against their walls. It is a rookie mistake but a common one. Sure enough following the signs to the delivery entrance there was a huge heap of snow piled high on either side of the fence forming a perfect ramp for thieves or detectives. Both Nancy and I scanned the area for guards or cameras but thanks to George we already knew the facility didn't have many security devices so we quickly clambered over the snow made ramp and into the grounds of Saint Sebastian's.

The grounds were bathed in darkness both helping and hindering us. Bart's heavy boots and my pained and tired limbs were making me stumble through the snow and I just prayed that we could find a way in. We kept to the shadows, dodging between the statues that we had seen earlier. From the car the statues had looked opulent and impressive; however, close up it was apparent they had been brutalized by time and weather. Some were missing arms. Many had no faces. Once they had been saints and angels. Now they were rubble. Memories of a past that had stopped existing a long time ago.

Nancy poked me in the ribs again, startling me out of my reverie, and pointed towards a darkened door with the sign "Employee Entrance" neatly spray painted on it. Again we both inspected the entrance at a distance to see if there were any security devices in play, but the door didn't even have a light over it. As one we slunk towards the steel door but quickly retreated back into the shadows as someone banged the door open, chatting loudly on her phone. Without even glancing around the woman walked towards the parking lot, followed by the smell of carbolic cleaning agent, marking her as a member of the cleaning staff. Quickly and quietly Nancy ran and dodged inside the door before it closed. The hospital employee noticed nothing as she ranted about what to get her mother for Christmas but I still held my breath hiding in a shadowy recess until I saw her get in her car and drive away. The employee parking lot now only had two cars in it, ensuring that there would only be a skeleton crew on shift tonight. As quietly as my clumsy feet would allow I crept towards the door. Gently I tapped on the steel and waited a gut wrenching two seconds before Nancy pushed open the door, revealing a small landing in a stairwell.

The heat of the hospital hugged my aching, cold body and I shivered with pain as feeling began coming back to my limbs. This may not have been the stupidest thing I'd done but it was quickly climbing the list.

"Where should we search first," I whispered and was almost deafened by the sound of my own voice in the silent stairwell.

"Well Doctor Lynch's office is in the basement, I think if there is anything to indicate where Rick is it'd be in there," muttered Nancy, turning towards the down stairs.

Her boots squeaked noisily on the polished tile stairs. The noise echoed up the staircase. With a petrified look we both began to unlace our footwear, knotting the laces and slinging them over our shoulders as we progressed down into the basement in our socks.

Again we checked, more out of habit than actual fear, to see if there were any cameras in the hallway. There were none.

"It's really odd," I commented as we snuck along the basement corridor towards Lynch's office, "you know the lack of cameras."

Nancy nodded solemnly as she took out her Swiss Army knife, extricating the plastic toothpick and tweezers, "I know what you mean. It feels almost too easy." She knelt down at the office door and, bending one of the prongs of the tweezers to a 90 degree angle, she began to expertly pick the lock on the doctor's office door.

I turned my back looking down the hallway when I suddenly heard something.

"Nance," I hissed, flinging my hand back and accidentally hitting my friend in the face.

"Ow, Joe," she moaned, looking up at me, "What the hell was that-," she trailed off hearing the same thing as me. "Shit," she exclaimed standing up, "That's the elevator moving."

Without a glance backward we hurried towards the staircase in our stocking feet as we heard the elevator trundling upward towards us. Wait, what? I stopped, turning away from the stairwell and moving slowly towards the elevator.

"What are you doing?," demanded Nancy, grabbing my jacket's sleeve and trying to pull me towards the staircase.

"We're in the basement, right?" I spoke slowly, planting my ear firmly against the elevator's door.

Nancy looked panicked and exasperated, "Yes. Let's go before we're caught," she urged.

I slowly turned to face her, "Then how is the elevator coming from below us?"

Nancy stopped, blinking, listening carefully. We heard the elevator pass our floor and head further up the building.

"There must be a sub-basement," I reasoned, "An off the grid sub-basement would be a pretty good place to keep someone hidden."

"What better place to keep his son away from prying eyes," Nancy nodded, a bright light in her blue eyes.

"But how do we get down there," I muttered, peaking into the stairwell and seeing only stairs leading upward.

"Same way as the Doctor does," came Nancy's strained voice from behind me. I whipped around expecting to see her in the grip of a goon but she only appeared to have stabbed the elevator with her pen knife. "Don't just stand there," she grunted, levering the doors apart slightly, "help me!"

My aching fingers screamed bloody murder at me as I latched my finger nails in the small gap Nancy had opened and began tugging. I felt the blisters burst releasing fluid which dripped down my arms, mingling with my sweat as the two of us, inch by inch, pushed the doors apart. With the two of us panting the doors slide fully open and we looked into the dark expanse of the elevator shaft. The elevator had finished its accent and the wires were still in the inky blackness.

"Ready?" Asked Nancy, nervous energy in her every move.

I felt my stomach fall as I realized what she wanted to do. "I don't think I can climb the wires," I confided, showing her my blackened fingers with pus and blood dripping onto the pristine tiles beneath us.

Nancy's shoulders drooped and she looked crestfallen.

"You go," I insisted, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice, "I'll keep watch up here."

She stared back at me still unsure but quickly dug through her bag, extricating a head lamp and a tangle of wire.

"Here," she muttered, handing me a smaller tangle of wire which turned out to be a set of earbuds, "If the signal is good enough we can keep in touch when I go down," she clarified, inserting a different pair of headphones into one of her ears. Quickly I followed suit before dialing her number.

"Testing 1-2-3," I whispered into the microphone attached to the headphones.

Nancy smiled, "I read you loud and clear," she whispered back before stowing her phone into an interior pocket of her coat. "It's now or never I guess," she mumbled, facing the darkness of the elevator shaft and rubbing her hands together.

With an almighty jump and no fear she launched herself towards the elevator wire. It groaned at the sudden horizontal pressure but held as she began a controlled slide downwards. Soon she was swallowed by the darkness and the only hint I had that she was still there was the laboured breathing I could hear in the headset.

"There's a door down here," she muttered.

"Do you need help to open it?" I asked, suddenly remembering how it had taken both of us to open this elevator door.

There was a pause and a grunt, "It's a different style of door. It seems more like the original doors that came with the manor. I think I can get it open by myself."

More grunts and mumbling was all the information that I got from Nancy for the next two minutes until….

"Holy shit," breathed Nancy.

"What is it Nancy?" I half whispered, half shouted, "Are you okay?"

Silence. My heart stopped.

"Nancy," I groaned, plugging in the second earbud to better hear but there was nothing.

Making sure to keep the elevator door open I stood up, looking down. I could see a chink of light coming from the door Nancy presumably opened but there was no sign of her. Suddenly my phone began to vibrate. I glanced down to see that it was a FaceTime call from…. Nancy?! I jabbed the answer button. My screen lit up with a video and there was Nancy.

"You have to see this Joe," she intoned seriously, pivoting her phone so I could see her surroundings.

My jaw dropped. The rest of the building may have looked like a your standard hospital but where Nancy was looked like the hallway of a five star hotel. Dim lighting, plush carpet, and brass fixtures dotted the area. Nancy flipped the phone back towards herself.

"There is only one door down here," she whispered, again twisting the phone so I could see the door labeled with a backlit sign pronouncing it as room 1102.

"Bizarre," I breathed, watching with baited breath as she slowly progressed down the hallway.

As she reached the door she placed her phone on the ground and began to pick the lock with the accouterments from her Swiss Army knife. Less than thirty seconds later a loud click echoed and I winced at the noise. Nancy paused, looking around but when no one came running she gently pushed the door in.

"Rick," she called quietly. "Rick Lynch are you here?"

It was like watching a first person horror movie as Nancy progressed into the room. Her head light cutting swathes through the room, brightly highlighting elements of what looked like an upscale apartment. Suddenly Nancy gasped loudly, dropping her phone. The call was lost. I went to press redial when a scream rent the air, making my hair stand on end.

"Nancy!" I yelled down the elevator shaft.

That was when I felt it. The cold steel of the point of a syringe, hovering over the back of my neck.

I raised my hands above my head and watched the elevator doors silently slide closed, cutting me off from the scream and from my friend.


	15. Chapter 15- Nancy- 22 December 2019

_Author's Note: I just wanted to apologize for the major delay. It was my best intention to finish this story in December but I got bombarded in all directions of life and something had to give. Unfortunately, it was this story. I hope to write a chapter a week going forward again but please forgive me if I don't. I am trying to write the best story I can but the words don't always come easy to me. Thank you for all of your support! Enjoy!_

* * *

**NANCY**

It was the windows that made me drop my phone. I had been expecting a great many things. Horrific violence, blood, gore, all the trappings of a creepy hospital after dark, but what I was not expecting was a nice apartment with floor to ceiling windows. I felt my headphones pop from my ears as I approached the window, my headlamp reflecting back at me slightly in the darkened room. I placed my hand on the glass and knew the trick.

While not burning hot it was warm, unlike every other window in Boston currently. It had to be LED panels. My stomach clenched as I thought of the trapped Lynch son, sure he wasn't a good person but at least in real prison you get to see daylight and smell the fresh air. He'd been trapped underground looking out frosted windows into LED lights for months, definitely a punishment that would fall under cruel and unusual, despite the cushy trappings.

Slowly I began to turn around to get a better view of the aforementioned cushy trappings when cold metal smacked across my forehead. I screamed, partially from pain, partially from shock. I felt the band clamping the headlamp to my forehead loosen and saw it fly across the room carried by the force of the hit. My trusty headlamp cracked menacingly against the wall and I felt my scream die in my throat as I realized I was not alone, the hard metal barrel poking into my side was a clear indicator of that.

"Who the fuck are you," rasped a voice, with an overly thick Bostonian accent.

I froze and the voice jabbed at me again, "Hurry up buddy," he growled, "if I fire, this bullet is going straight through your large intestine. You'll die before they can get you to a hospital."

I couldn't help but giggle. This guy obviously didn't know where he was since we were already in a hospital.

"You laughin' at me, sister," the husky voice barked, his accent becoming more Irish-Boston as he got angrier.

"No," I choked, attempting to swallow my nervous laughter, "It's just that we are already in a hospital."

I felt the barrel leave my side, creaking slightly. My breath fogged the 'window' and I turned, trying to see my attacker.

"I don't think so," mumbled the man, his voice thoughtful rather than angry now as he pushed the barrel back into my side.

"So I'm guessing you're Rick Lynch," I breathed, squinting out the sides of my peripheral vision, attempting to see the man.

It was the man's turn to laugh, but it was a humourless laugh, "That's right love. Patrick Adian Lynch. Born June 7th, 1991. Age 28. All around ne'er-do-well and scum of the earth." He paused, jamming the metal deeper into my side, causing the barrel to creak again, "I'm also a murderer," he growled, "so keep that in mind when I ask the question: What. The. Fuck. Are. You. Doing. Here?" He jabbed the barrel into me with each word.

"You sent me a message," I answered simply. That was always the key with interrogation, let them think they're asking the questions but also let them provide all the answers.

"Oh, I highly doubt that," he mused sarcastically, "I've only sent messages to one person the past little while and they definitely didn't have your build."

"Okay then," I sighed exaggeratedly, "why do you think I am here?"

"Have you come to kill me?"

Shock radiated through my body, "What? No!" I spluttered, "Have you come to die?"

There was a brief pause as if Rick was thinking hard, "people can do worse things than kill you," he answered cryptically.

"How so," I asked, both stalling for time while I thought and genuinely curious.

"Oh sweetheart," sighed the wayward son, "don't ever try to get inside my head. It's too dark in there for you."

"You'd be surprised, sweetheart," I sneered, tossing his patriarchal language back at him.

"My father has me trapped here. Refuses to let me leave. There aren't even any locks on the inside of the door," I felt my stomach drop. No locks and no windows meant no exit. "I've tried to get out but I can't," he moaned, sounding pained. "I'm done trying to save myself. So if you're offering death, I'll take it. At least in death I have freedom."

I felt the pressure leave my side and attempted again to look at Rick Lynch, the prisoner, but the metal jammed hard again into my side.

"Ouch," I yelped, a small flame of annoyance being blown into a raging inferno of anger, "By all means please point your 'gun' at me if it helps you relax, but can you answer me one question?" I snarled, done with this poser.

The voice that answered back was thick with rage, sounding more Irish than Bostonian, "Why the fuck aren't you scared of me?" He barked and I felt spit hit the side of my face and neck.

I rolled my eyes to the LED screen pretending to be a window and answered the idiotic playboy pretending to be a victim, "Oh please, I've had nightmares of Physics exams that are scarier than you."

The barrel dug deeper into my side, "Don't give me attitude darling, I've already got one of my own."

"So I see," I responded sardonically. "A bad one. It goes so well with the stupid ideas."

"Hey, I'm not the one that entered into an unknown place without a weapon or an exfil strategy."

"And I'm not the one holding a crutch to a person pretending it's a gun," I said, spinning quickly pulling the metal crutch that Rick had been trying to convince me was a gun.

The large figure cloaked in darkness stumbled and fell face first in front of me. Quickly I scrambled onto his back. Being sure to keep one knee firmly on his spine I grabbed his arms and pinned them against his back. His greasy jaw-length hair began to move too and fro as he attempted to escape, but I held tightly. Then the movement stopped and a loud groan escaped from underneath me.

"How the hell did you know," came his muffled voice.

Despite the circumstances, I felt a little pride, "One," I responded smugly, "the barrel creaked every time you moved it. Real guns don't do that. Two, why wouldn't you have used the gun to escape. And three," I smiled or grimaced to myself, "If you think this is the first time I've had a gun pointed at me you'd be in for a big surprise." I breathed deeply, before remembering, "Oh and four, I used this same trick to escape an abandoned hospital in Kansas once."

Beneath me, the man stopped struggling and I felt my pulse quicken. I tightened my grip in case he was pretending to be blacked out so he'd be able to escape easier.

"Nancy?" Came a confused groan, devoid of Boston accent completely. And my heart stopped. I needed to move but I couldn't. When the gun had been pointed at me I had been filled with calm, even a certain amount of relief, but when the man beneath me had groaned my name I was brought into a world of nightmares. I was back to that hot and sweaty night in April, clothes being torn off with reckless abandon. He'd groaned my name then too. But it couldn't be. It just couldn't. This was Rick Lynch, King of the scumbags, not ...not… not him.


	16. Chapter 16- Joe- 22 December 2019

**JOE**

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The sound of the blood and pus hitting the floor from my raised hands echoed around the silent hospital corridor. I sighed. The fight was quickly leaving me. I just wanted this all to end. I was exhausted from trying to appear stronger than I felt.

"How can I help you, Dr. Ly-" I began but felt the needle jab quickly into my external jugular vein and felt the fluid penetrate my blood. "Ow, what the hell?!"

I flung my arms out to try and grab my attacker but my socks, which were also filling with blood and pus from my frostbitten feet, slipped on the sleek tiles. I toppled over, hitting my head on the elevator door.

"I wouldn't fight too hard," chuckled the grim voice of the Doctor, "it will just course through your veins quicker if you do."

I looked up at the man, a crazy glint from his eyes permeating the dim hallways. I went to stand up but my muscles protested.

"What did you give me?" I growled, sitting with my back to the elevator.

He chuckled again, "Oh don't blame this on me," he smirked. "This is your body telling you it is time to rest. No, it'll be a few minutes before you start to feel the effects of this cocktail," he waved the empty syringe around.

I flinched away from the needle.

"Oh the great Joseph Hardy is afraid of a little prick," laughed the Doctor manically in his Irish-Boston brogue. "This is too funny!"

"I wouldn't say that," I mumbled through gritted teeth as I attempted to stand up again. "I'd call you something much worse than a prick."

My legs shook and I collapsed again. As I lay panting on the floor, I began to feel it, the warm pinpricks on my cheeks that was the telltale sign of an anesthetic. I lifted my hand to my neck, feeling the puncture wound before my arm fell lamely to my side.

"Ah," smiled Lynch, "I see it is starting to take effect."

"What did you give me?" I demanded again through gritted teeth, urgency in my voice. It wasn't like a normal anesthetic, where I'd be out cold in less than a minute. It was slowly incapacitating me but it didn't feel like a muscle relaxant either.

"Rohypnol," shrugged the doctor.

"That's illegal in the US, even for medical work!"

"Because of my research, I have a permit to use it. It is almost eight times stronger than Valium and has some interesting effects in lowering inhibitions and causing temporary amnesia which my team has been studying," he pointed at the labs behind him as he spoke. "It shows promise as part of the memory erasure and implantation treatment in mice."

"Is that why you stuck me? To make me forget what I know?" I breathed, trying to slow my heart rate to inhibit the spread of the drug.

"Honestly, it was the inhibition lowering that I was going for," grinned the Doctor.

"Isn't that why roofies became illegal in the first place," I mumbled, trying to move my legs but feeling them heavy as stone.

"Mr. Hardy, I gave you a full dose so you will be asleep in," he checked his watch, "ten minutes. In these ten minutes you are going to tell me what you know."

"Okay Doc, what do you want to know?" My mouth said as the small part of my brain that knew this was the effect of the drug lowering my inhibitions got choked off.

"How did you get in?"

"Cleaning staff was careless," I smirked, "How'd you know I was here?"

"I have one of those Ring doorbell cameras hidden in the window of my office," he said puffing out his chest in pride. "I guess you and Miss Drew missed it."

"Huh, George didn't know about that one," I mused, feeling the dizziness associated with passing out start to take over me. "What are you going to do to us then?"

"That really depends on your next answer," stated the Doctor, looming over me. "Why are you here?"

"To save your son," I answered simply.

Lynch looked pained, "Yes, but what gave it away? How much do you actually know?"

I tried to clear my head but the easy embrace of pure honesty beckoned, "He sent an email to me. I followed it here."

The old man's face widened in shock and he quickly knelt down beside me, "That little fucker emailed you?!" He shouted, barely a foot from my face.

"Hey, that's not a nice thing to call your son," I chided, the roofies making me giddy. "Why are you being so mean to him?"

The Doctor's cold eyes narrowed, boring into mine, "Mean? I saved his life even though he doesn't deserve it," he spat, specks of saliva landing on my face dancing with the feeling of the anesthetic.

"I dunno," I mused, feeling my jaw begin to loosen. "Being locked away in a basement doesn't seem like much of a life to me."

"He's safe now," growled the older man, clenching his hands like he'd had this argument a hundred times before. "He was running around doing stupid things, but now he is going to be all right."

"As someone who has spent most of their life running around doing stupid stuff, I resent that," I grinned widely, as my brain screamed for me to do something, anything.

"Yes," said the Doctor pensively. "It is so fitting that I chose him."

My brain struggled to comprehend the statement as my body struggled to remain upright, "Huh?"

Pádraig Lynch stopped and looked at me like he'd never seen me before. I stared back at him bleary-eyed. "You, you… you don't know, do you?" He intoned slowly, his voice quiet before breaking out into a raucous laugh, collapsing beside me. "Holy shit, you really don't know!"

I turned to face my laughing captor as fast as I could (which wasn't very fast), "What's up Doc?" I muttered as the old man giggled helplessly beside me.

"Oh this makes things so much easier," he said breathlessly between giggles. "I thought I was going to have to do something drastic, but you're nothing but a small blip. My plan can still work!"

My brain fought to absorb the information, "What plan is that Doc?"

But the man was in a world of his own, "I was so sure you had recognized me. I've been stressed out since you came but it was all legitimately because you were trying to save my son!" He giggled again.

"Know you?" I mumbled, confused.

"Yes," the old man chuckled. "I recognized you immediately. You were being teased by everyone over lusting after the blonde girl the day I saw you."

It took a moment but as realization penetrated my brain the fog of the drug seemed to lift for a second and I saw Frank's face in my mind. "You were there the day he disappeared?!"

The Doctor clapped his hands like a small child, "Very good Mr. Hardy. Do you remember where?"

I struggled, the fog rolling back in. "Pizza," I said slowly, "you were eating pizza." Then it came to me in a flash, Chet, Tony, Frank, Nancy, Bess, George, and George's other half Izzie sitting in a stifling hot restaurant. Doctor Lynch had been there. He'd laughed at me while sipping wine and eating pizza. He'd been watching our table the whole time we'd been in the pizzeria.

"You do remember," smiled the old man mirthlessly, watching realization come to my face. "But it is too late now."

"Did you kill my brother?" I asked slowly, fighting off the full effects of the drug, desperate for the answer to this one question even if I was facing my death.

"Tell me before you pass out," calmly intoned the calculating Doctor, "did the Rohypnol make you horny?"

I shook my head confused by the left-field question and angry at the doctor's avoidance of my query.

Lynch leaned in and peered into my eyes with scientific curiosity, "You see it has been reported that Rohypnol can sexually arouse people, but I have never seen it in my research," he said, in full know-it-all doctor mode now. "When I slipped it into your brother's drink at El Horno Pizzeria he went crazy over Miss Drew. I wasn't sure if it was because it was a low-level dose or because he wanted to do it anyway and the Rohypnol lowered his inhibitions enough for him to act. I thought it might have been genetic but given that it isn't affecting you the same way…" He petered off deep in thought.

But his words had been enough to blow the fog from my brain and replace it with anger. With every fibre of my being, I lunged sideways at him. I barely had any muscle control and as I collapsed on him I felt the last vestiges of my strength leave me. The elderly man may have had a strong mind, but he had a weak body. He struggled under my 230 pounds of dead weight muscle, but couldn't move. Age and bias may have robbed him of reason, and drugs may have robbed me of strength, but he was not going to escape. He was going to pay for what he had done to his son. And he was going to pay double for what he had done to my brother.


End file.
